The Madness of Chess Champions

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There is a curious parallelism in the lives of America’s two world chess champions. Both Paul Morphy (1837-1884) and Bobby Fischer had reached the pinnacle of chess and seem to have frittered the rest of their lives away. In Morphy’s case, there was no official championship, but he was universally acknowledged to have beaten the best chess players of his day during an extended European trip in 1857-1858. The only major player he did not beat was the British champ, Howard Staunton, mostly because Staunton, who was past his prime, was too chicken-hearted to play him.

After his European trip, Morphy stopped playing chess altogether—much like Bobby Fischer over a hundred years later. In Morphy’s case, the Civil War happened; and, being a Southerner from New Orleans, his sympathies were with the Confederacy. But things only got worse after the war. His friend Charles Maurian wrote about what appeared to be his madness:

It is unfortunately true that Mr. Morphy’s mind has been deranged of late but not to the extent that the New York Sun would have us believe.

I noticed some time ago some extraordinary statements he made of petty persecutions directed against him by unknown persons, that there was something wrong about him, but after a while he openly accused some well known persons of being the authors of the persecutions, and insisted upon their giving him proper satisfaction by arms.

You beg me to inform you if it is true that certain rumours about Paul Morphy are true that he may not be right mentally. I am sorry to have to reply to you that these rumours are only too well founded.

The subject is discussed at some length in a Chess.Com discussion board. Whether or not Morphy went batshit crazy, he was a great chess player. No less a champion than Bobby Fischer called him the greatest player who ever lived. If you can follow chess notation, you should look up some of his greatest games.

Punished for His Bad Attitude

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Bobby Fischer (1943-2008), Former World Chess Champion

To be sure, Bobby Fischer was no exemplar for anyone’s behavior. His was the classical example of what can happen when you achieve your fondest wish, in his case to become the world chess champion after the Russians controlled the number one spot from 1937 to 1972.

I just finished reading a pamphlet Fischer published after he was picked up by the Pasadena, California police in May 1981 and horrendously mistreated because of his “bad attitude.” He was kept without clothes in an icy cell, deprived of the right to make a phone call, robbed of the cash in his wallet, and denied sufficient food and water during his incarceration. Below is a photo of his pamphlet’s cover:

Why do I appear to be so obsessed with Bobby Fischer? The main reason is that I love chess, and Bobby was one of two American world champions—both of whom went off the rails after their moment of glory. I will post a blog about Paul Morphy (1837-1884) within the next day or so.

Also, I am appalled because this would not have happened to Fischer had he been Russian. Unless for some reason he defied the powers that be in the Soviet Union, he would have lived well with a generous pension from Mother Russia. America doesn’t always know how to treat its heroes. And Fischer was a real hero, possibly the best chess player who ever lived.

Another reason: Fischer’s birth father was NOT Hans-Gerhardt Fischer, whose name appeared on Bobby’s birth certificate, but Paul Neményi, a distinguished Hungarian mathematician whom whom his mother Regina had an affair during the war. See for yourself:

Left: Bobby Fischer, Right: Paul Neményi.

It warms my Magyar heart to know that Bobby was one of my countrymen, both as a Hungarian and as an American.

Exit Bobby Fischer

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Bobby Fischer’s Grave in Laugardælir Churchyard in Iceland

He was quite possibly the greatest chess player who ever lived. In 1972, he contended against Boris Spassky for the world title, and won it handily. Even Spassky, who had to put up with a lot of shit from his minders back in the Soviet Union, applauded his victory.

Then things suddenly went bad for Bobby. He hooked up with the Church of God in Pasadena, California; decided not to defend his title against challenger Anatoly Karpov; and even spent time in jail for vagrancy in Pasadena. (He wrote a pamphlet about it which I will share with you in a future post.)

In any case, he didn’t play chess competitively any more With one exception: He played Boris Spassky again, and won again. But neither his games nor Spassky’s were judged to be up to their best. More importantly, the match in Yugoslavia was held in the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, which was being boycotted by the United Nations (and the United States) for war crimes against the breakaway republics of Croatia, Bosnia, and Kossovo. In fact, Fischer learned that a warrant was out for his arrest.

Where to go? Fischer wound up in custody in Japan, but was saved from further embarrassment by Iceland, which granted him citizenship in appreciation for the first match against Spassky, which was held in Reykjavík.

The last years of Fischer’s life were spent in Iceland. But by this time Fischer was embittered and a prey to conspiracy theories about the United States, the Jews (ethnically, he was one on both sides of his family), the bomb, and you name it. He lost most of the friends he had gained and died sooner than he had to because he refused dialysis.

He is buried in the small hamlet of Laugardælir near Selfoss.

Land of Waterfalls

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Gullfoss in Southwest Iceland

In my two vacations in Iceland (2001 and 2013), I have seen literally hundreds of waterfalls. Some, like Gullfoss above, were utterly spectacular. I am sure that the snow melt that occurs during the Icelandic summer, when I visited, displayed the force of the falls at their height.

Below is one waterfall that is not visited so frequently, as it is in the remote Westfjords. I am referring to Dynjandi, illustrated below:

Dynjandi Falls in the Westfjords

The most powerful falls on the island is Dettifoss on the Jökulsá á Fjöllum River which flows north from the Vatnajökull Glacier to the Greenland Sea. I visited in during my first trip, in August 2001.

Dettifoss From the East Bank of the Jökulsá á Fjöllum River

I will never forget the roar of that mighty 144-foot (44-meter) plunge of the falls. That was an incredible trip, which began at Lake Myvátn and took us along the Jökulsá á Fjöllum River to the forest at Ásbbyrgi Canyon, then on to Husavík and back to the Lake.

Whacked Wednesday

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Rabid Black Friday Shoppers in Laramie, Wyoming

I guess it was inevitable. First there was Black Friday, which after the weekend was followed by Cyber Monday and Giving Tuesday. Retailers love such intense concentrations of outgoing cash flow. I see as the inevitable result a Whacked Wednesday, meaning completely exhausted and presumably short of funds.

If you are a strong believer in sales, you will inevitably spend more money than you can afford on stuff that you will not likely use. Oh, you’ll get some real bargains—but will it be for things you actually need? I rather doubt that quite as much is spent on Giving Tuesday.

As Epictetus wrote some 1,900 years ago: “Wealth consists not in having great possessions, but in having few wants.” Unfortunately, it can take a lifetime to learn this.

So it goes.

“Barren the Comings and Goings on This Shore”

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The Rock Pillar Known as the Old Man of Hoy

The following poem is taken from a volume entitled The Wreck of the Archangel. It is from my favorite Scottish poet, George Mackay Brown, whom I met at Stromness on the Orkney Mainland in 1976.

In Memoriam I. K.

That one should leave The Green Wood suddenly
     In the good comrade-time of youth,
     And clothed in the first coat of truth
Set out alone on an uncharted sea:

Who’ll ever know what star
     Summoned him, what mysterious shell
     Locked in his ear that music and that spell,
And what grave ship was waiting for him there?

The greenwood empties soon of leaf and song.
     Truth turns to pain. Our coats grow sere.
     Barren the comings and goings on this shore.
He anchors off The Islands of the Young.

Spear and Magic Helmet

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Elmer Fudd in Warner Brothers’ “What’s Opera Doc?”

It was, to my mind, the greatest short cartoon ever made. In 1957, Warner Brothers released a Wagner opera parody (of Die Walküre, no less) featuring Bugs Bunny and Elmer Fudd. You can see it, with commentary, by clicking on:

I have written before about my suspicion that the United States has (d)evolved from a Bugs Bunny nation to an Elmer Fudd nation. Always immaculately garbed in hunting clothes, or in the case of this film spear and magic helme, Fudd nonetheless doesn’t know what he wants. He says he wants to kill the wabbit. But he also, in his strange incel way, loves the wabbit. And Bugs knows it and takes advantage of him.

Of course, in this film Bugs dies. His last line as he is carried off by Elmer is something to the effect that operas always end sadly.

Elmer Carries Off the Body of His Doomed Love/Hate Object

When Elmer first encounters Bugs in the film, he is poking his spear into a rabbit hole shouting “Kill the Wabbit!” while Bugs, standing off to the side, munches on a carrot. Only after a few moments does Elmer realize that Bugs is taunting him. He erupts in rage and uses his magic helmet to conjure up a storm. Whereupon Bugs as Brunhilda rides down a hill from a Greek temple lounging on the back of a fat white horse.

Naturally, Elmer falls immediately in love with Bugs/Brunhilda and his golden braided wig. They dance a pas de deux until—horrors!—Bugs/Brunhilda’s wig falls to the ground. Enraged again, he uses his magic helmet to whip up a storm that kills the object of his hate/love. Remorse follows as Elmer exits carrying the limp Bugs.

The film was directed by Chuck Jones, one of my favorite animators.

Leonardo’s End

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The Clos Lucé, Leonardo da Vinci’s Château in Amboise, France

It is not generally known that Leonardo da Vinci spent his final years in Amboise, France, where he was honored by François I with his own little château within walking distance of the Royal Palace. Some twenty years ago, Martine and I visited the Loire where we saw the châteaux at Chambord, Chenanceau, Chaumont, Villandry, Azay-le-Rideau, Cheverny, and Amboise.

We based ourselves in Amboise and spent time at François I’s château of Amboise. We were startled to see in the château’s chapel of St. Florentin the tomb of the great Italian artist and thinker:

Tomb of Leonardo da Vinci at Amboise

We then found out about Leonardo’s nearby home and visited it. Leonardo had spent many thankless years with Lodovico Sforza, the ruler of Milan, without really being appreciated for his talents. It is good to know that, in his last years, Leonardo found a ruler who did not mistreat him. In fact, Giorgio Vasari says that François I cradled Leonardo’s head on his deathbed. Whether or not he did, Leonardo died will full honors on May 2, 1519..

America’s Love Affair With Billionaires

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Elon Musk

Why do Americans shower their billionaires with a level of adoration normally reserved for deities and saints? I think back to the Medicis and the Borgias during the Italian Renaissance. As J. H. Plumb wrote, “Commercial capitalism, struggling the the framework of feudalism, learned, through Italy, not only how to express itself in art and learning, but also how to make an art of life itself.”

Not so today, however! Donald Trump has given us golden toilet bowls, ornate golf courses, and tried to take away our democracy. Elon Musk managed to convince thousands of Americans that he was a genius—until he spent $44 billion buying Twitter and running it into the ground. After his latest anti-Semitic tirade, I think even most Tesla owners are rethinking their allegiances.

I cannot think of a billionaire today who has done anything but engage in self-aggrandizement. Instead of a Renaissance, we are now in a period that can only be described as Anti-Renaissance.

What ever happened to patronage of the arts? Oh, it still exists at the millionaire level; but not among the Trumps, Musks, and Bezoses of this world. The think the last billionaire to show any moves in this direction was Bill Gates of Microsoft fame.

Death Valley

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The Harmony Borax Works in Death Valley

One of the fiercest deserts on Earth is only about five hours northeast of where I live. I am referring to Death Valley. It’s not actually a valley despite its name: It’s actually a graben, referring to a piece of the Earth’s crust that is shifted downward in comparison to adjacent pieces of crust which have shifted upwards.

Dry and desolate though it may be, it is also strangely beautiful. But only if you visit it at the right time of year, namely winter. If you visit in summer, the temperatures push upwards of 120-130° Fahrenheit (49-55° Celsius).

Martine and I visited in 2008, when these pictures were taken. We stayed at the motel at Stovepipe Wells in January 2008. The rooms were excellent, but the food in the restaurant was pretty dreadful. Who ever thought of dumping old gravy into the soup?

Ubehebe Crater

I would love to go back to Death Valley sometime, perhaps this time staying at Furnace Creek rather than Stovepipe Wells.

We could also visit Lone Pine, one of my favorite towns along U.S. 395, where there is a museum of film westerns and some surprisingly good places to eat.