For all chess players and aficionados in the world, he was a hero. For a chess generation, he was also a role model. More than a few nerdy young characters wanted to be like him, play like him, act like him. It was not just his portentous talent. It was also his arrogance, his continuous demands (financial and otherwise) and his theatrical bravadoes (a classic one was, “I’m not afraid of Spassky; he’s afraid of me”).
When he won the World Championship in 1972, it was difficult for the general public to imagine him as a protagonist of even more astounding, bizarre or outrageous events than the ones before and during his last match in Reykjavik. They certainly expected even greater chess. When he refused to defend his title first and then he voluntary alienated himself from the chess world, that fueled again a superficial and frivolous journalism. His detractors kept brandishing their pseudo-psychiatric labels against him. Anyway, he had already gained his rightful place in chess history, together with his two favorite champions of the past, Morphy and Capablanca (Bobby considered the latter to be the greatest player of all time).
Nonetheless, everyone was far from figuring what was next. The years to follow were even more surprising. Fearless, he started a one-man political war. For this, he was cheered by many and booed by many more. While his controversial statements can only be fairly evaluated through the microscope of time (future generations will have that advantage), the courage he showed while making them was simply staggering. But this fight was hopeless. He was grossly outnumbered and overpowered; it would have been impossible to win this game. This time, it was check mate for Fischer.
He passed away, at age 64, on January 10 this year. I found out about his death a couple of weeks later. Paradoxically, in the years to come, he will probably be remembered more for his political and personal fights than for his chess.
A lot of superficial speculations have been expressed over the years about his “mental illness”, by journalists, the public and his fellow chess players. The glib labels included “crazy” and “delusional”; another one that I remember reading is “manic-depressive”. Other funny digressions pretended to be Freudian in nature, like “denying himself of chess was denying himself of Jewishness”. Obviously no mental health professional would venture an assessment based only on press notes or radio/TV interviews. However, some points seem to be clear:
- There is no hard evidence suggesting that he was ever psychotic or delusional.
- The general behavioral pattern emerging throughout the press reports, his own writings and interviews suggests a narcissistic personality, along with some paranoid traits. However, the narcissistic core could explain most of his extreme attitudes and decisions. He was excessively afraid to lose, more so after he became the World Champion. He was exceedingly sensitive to criticism and took the most minimal dissension of his friends as a betrayal. At some point, he acquired a sense of omnipotence, based on his enormous talent, that led him to defy any individual or organization opposing his demands. Outside the board, he often was seen awkward, with an undeniable sense of inadequacy, which he tried to compensate with an expensive wardrobe.
- Above all these considerations, his towering genius, makes us willing to forgive his eccentricities. I, for one, have already forgiven him.
The Brain Shop 