placing it deep within the barrel of the body.
Shocking news! The concept that Louis and I have been ill-used by the Overlords, that the Overlords have misrepresented the importance of our match and that what we are engaged in after all is little more than an exhibition. But I remind myself frantically, struggling for some kind of stability and self-control, that Louis has given absolutely no basis at all for his allegation, that he is functioning on the rankest form of hearsay. Since he has a reputation in our circles for lying anyway, there is no reason to pay unusual credence to our situation as he has interpreted it.
Still, it is with knocking knees that I make my weary way toward the backstage door. If there is the slightest credibility to be given to his information, I will have to re-evaluate the entire situation. This much is clear. I am liberal enough to say this. On the other hand, if he has lied to me (and Louis, like most grandmasters, is a compulsive liar in almost all aspects that cannot be directly verified), I am certain that he will pay severely for having done this to me.
It is a puzzlement, a puzzlement indeed, and it is as a much older and wearier individual that I return to the playing area, hearing as always themurmurs and spatters of applause which greet me. A grandmaster, even in these perilous circumstances, has certain obligations: I smile, wave and nod tightly to the crowd, and then I return to the board.
As I sit at the board, awaiting Louis’ next move, I daydream. Louis’ face is impassive; his arms are wrapped around his knees; he is totally devoted to the concept of the next move as it percolates its way moistly through the corridors of his mind. I do not interfere with those processes, it being an ancient fundamental of chess etiquette that one does nothing to distract the opponent. I would enjoy tapping my fingers on the table: whistling, singing, cracking my knuckles or, like the sainted Emmanuel Lasker, removing a huge cigar from a breast pocket to blow huge clouds of smoke into my opponent’s face ... but I do not know whether or not I could get away with this and in any event this, the fifteenth match of our series, would be no time to start. Ground rules for discourtesy should have been set much earlier, if at all.
So I allow my mind to whisk away from the board. Like a busy mop wielded by a chambermaid, it chases itself around in little wet circles, the circles ever widening and increasing around me, and a distraction so close to peace that it might be the same thing entirely overtakes me. Most of chess is daydreaming after all; every grandmaster knows this. One can maintain that funnel of high concentration only for a limited time; most of the period of the match is devoted to waiting for the opponent to make his moves, and it is amazing what the mind will get itself into during these periods.
Looking at Louis, his impassive face, his stronghands nestling into one another across the board, I admire his impassivity. It is hard to imagine, looking at him in this fashion, that not two minutes ago he divulged to me the amazing information which I have reported. Quite to the contrary, his face has flattened now into a grandmasterly scowl; he seems to be almost unaware of his surroundings, projecting himself into the board with intensity. It is odd at this early stage of the game that he would devote so much time to a simple response move, but then I have already given him a good deal to think about ... and in the bargain, it is possible that by slowing down the pace of his play he thinks that he is giving me more time to concentrate upon the information he has given. This is a credible possibility.
I think of the many paths and byways through which I was led into the grandmasterly passion. Certainly, I could have done many other things with my life; I could have been a mathematician, or a physicist perhaps; I could have constructed cryptograms or puzzles for the magazines, any one
Shocking news! The concept that Louis and I have been ill-used by the Overlords, that the Overlords have misrepresented the importance of our match and that what we are engaged in after all is little more than an exhibition. But I remind myself frantically, struggling for some kind of stability and self-control, that Louis has given absolutely no basis at all for his allegation, that he is functioning on the rankest form of hearsay. Since he has a reputation in our circles for lying anyway, there is no reason to pay unusual credence to our situation as he has interpreted it.
Still, it is with knocking knees that I make my weary way toward the backstage door. If there is the slightest credibility to be given to his information, I will have to re-evaluate the entire situation. This much is clear. I am liberal enough to say this. On the other hand, if he has lied to me (and Louis, like most grandmasters, is a compulsive liar in almost all aspects that cannot be directly verified), I am certain that he will pay severely for having done this to me.
It is a puzzlement, a puzzlement indeed, and it is as a much older and wearier individual that I return to the playing area, hearing as always themurmurs and spatters of applause which greet me. A grandmaster, even in these perilous circumstances, has certain obligations: I smile, wave and nod tightly to the crowd, and then I return to the board.
As I sit at the board, awaiting Louis’ next move, I daydream. Louis’ face is impassive; his arms are wrapped around his knees; he is totally devoted to the concept of the next move as it percolates its way moistly through the corridors of his mind. I do not interfere with those processes, it being an ancient fundamental of chess etiquette that one does nothing to distract the opponent. I would enjoy tapping my fingers on the table: whistling, singing, cracking my knuckles or, like the sainted Emmanuel Lasker, removing a huge cigar from a breast pocket to blow huge clouds of smoke into my opponent’s face ... but I do not know whether or not I could get away with this and in any event this, the fifteenth match of our series, would be no time to start. Ground rules for discourtesy should have been set much earlier, if at all.
So I allow my mind to whisk away from the board. Like a busy mop wielded by a chambermaid, it chases itself around in little wet circles, the circles ever widening and increasing around me, and a distraction so close to peace that it might be the same thing entirely overtakes me. Most of chess is daydreaming after all; every grandmaster knows this. One can maintain that funnel of high concentration only for a limited time; most of the period of the match is devoted to waiting for the opponent to make his moves, and it is amazing what the mind will get itself into during these periods.
Looking at Louis, his impassive face, his stronghands nestling into one another across the board, I admire his impassivity. It is hard to imagine, looking at him in this fashion, that not two minutes ago he divulged to me the amazing information which I have reported. Quite to the contrary, his face has flattened now into a grandmasterly scowl; he seems to be almost unaware of his surroundings, projecting himself into the board with intensity. It is odd at this early stage of the game that he would devote so much time to a simple response move, but then I have already given him a good deal to think about ... and in the bargain, it is possible that by slowing down the pace of his play he thinks that he is giving me more time to concentrate upon the information he has given. This is a credible possibility.
I think of the many paths and byways through which I was led into the grandmasterly passion. Certainly, I could have done many other things with my life; I could have been a mathematician, or a physicist perhaps; I could have constructed cryptograms or puzzles for the magazines, any one
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