The quotation, once again, was this:

There are innumerable examples with this line [the Zaitsev Variation of the Ruy Lopez]; everyone knows the famous games from the world championship matches between Kasparov and Karpov.

It cannot be within the scope of these brief notes to discuss the merits of the main line in detail. The general statement must suffice that in introducing a sharp, clear-cut idea of counterplay (f7-f5 destroying white's centre) it seems to be more promising than the continuation chosen by...."

For those of you familiar with Hübner's work, you've probably got a pretty good idea of what's coming next. For those who aren't, you're probably wondering why I'd bother with such a pedestrian quote. OK, it's useful for someone unfamiliar with the Zaitsev Ruy to know that it featured in some extraordinary Kasparov-Karpov games and to know that ...f7-f5 is an important idea for Black in its main line, but really! - Is it worth bothering about that as a special quotation?

The answer is that it's not. My real interest in the quotation is the first sentence of the second paragraph: "It cannot be within the scope of these brief notes to discuss the merits of the main line in detail." Even less interesting, you might be saying to yourself. (Hold your horses, impatient reader.) The reason why this is amusing has to do with Hübner's work as an annotator, which is oh, shall we say, somewhat thorough. The book from which this quotation was found is called Twenty-five Annotated Games; and now here's a question: how long would you guess the book is? There are some authors who could finish the job in about 50-60 pages, and many more would reasonably call it a day at about 100-110 pages.

Not our Grandmaster Hübner - not by a long shot! Hübner, who was for a couple of decades among the world's strongest players (and no slouch now with a 2595 rating, despite a second career as a papyrologist, complete with Ph.D.), is legendary for his persistence in and enthusiasm for analysis, and the book comprises 416 pages. Nine of those pages are dedicated to material other than the games, and there are generally a couple of diagrams on every page. Even so, you're definitely getting your money's worth out of this volume.

Now let's turn to the game from which the notes were taken. That was game 22, Hübner-Portisch, from the first round of the 1981 super-tournament in Tilburg. The first 15 moves pass without comment, and then there are several short paragraphs, including the ones reproduced above. So far, "brief notes" looks plausible. As it turns out, though, Hübner devotes 52 pages to this game. The high point comes on White's 32nd move, when he spends 13 pages considering alternatives. Hübner was quite possibly pulling the reader's leg when he spoke of "brief notes", but if not I tremble to think what he'd consider a properly filled-out commentary!

Lest anyone think that the foregoing is intended dismissively, I assure you that it's not. His thoroughness is admirable (especially considering that the product was his, not Frybka's - the book was published in 1996), and while it's as obvious as almost anything in this world that very few will plow through the whole thing, the games are fascinating in their own right, and even skimming the analysis is valuable for instruction, insight, entertainment and training.

And fans of my ChessVideos presentations might benefit too: maybe I'll do a series called "The Super-Fast Hübner", where each part will cover a page of his analysis. Imagine the possibilities: we could get through the Hübner-Portisch game in just one year!

*Source: Wikipedia, Photo: Stefan64

The great Vasily's games [referring to Ivanchuk] rarely fail to provide pleasure and inspiration. But occasionally he just goes bleeping nuts!

Chess masters do not talk as much of sore behinds as cyclists in a six-day race but, except for that, there are certain similarities when it comes to eloquence after an unexpectedly bad showing in the spurt for points. One of the most popular excuses is "a cold". It is convenient and undefined, may mean this or that, often, it means nothing at all.

Who said it, and what was the context? The answer, as reader Jeff Scott correctly replied, is Bent Larsen, from his much praised but comparatively little-known Larsen's Selected Games of Chess. The book has been out of print for a long time, but many who are familiar with it put it on a par with the much-beloved autobiographical work The Life and Games of Mikhail Tal.

Now to the context. Larsen's comment prefaced his game with Eliskases from the 1958 tournament in Mar del Plata. Here's how he continues:

It is good to have such an explanation ready, so I have hesitated to bring my game against Eliskases and its story to the knowledge of a broader public. However, the fact remains that it is a good game, something to show and to brag about.

It was an exciting game where both players were under heavy attack. The one which Eliskases had to ward off will be seen from the moves, the one against myself was conducted with great violence by a tremendous army of bacteria.

The weather in Mar del Plata in March, the Argentine autumn, is like first-class Danish summer weather, but one day suddenly we were served cold and rain, and I had not been dressed for it. On the next day when I had to play Eliskases I coughed incessantly, and I needed every one of the big supply of handkerchiefs in my pockets...

This extended quotation gives a glimpse into Larsen's writing style, especially his wit and self-confidence. Larsen, for those who aren't so familiar with him, was one of the world's best players in the 1960s and 1970s. He was a world championship candidate on four times, and prior to his drubbing at Fischer's hands in 1971, many thought he had a reasonable shot at the highest title. He was also viewed as maverick chess thinker, somewhat like Morozevich today. Definitely one of the great players of chess history whom all fans should know about.

Finally, the game: that can be replayed here.

Chess masters do not talk as much of sore behinds as cyclists in a six-day race but, except for that, there are certain similarities when it comes to eloquence after an unexpectedly bad showing in the spurt for points. One of the most popular excuses is "a cold". It is convenient and undefined, may mean this or that, often, it means nothing at all.

Who said it, and what was the context?

Word was getting around about Bobby Fischer. From the first rumors of a talented kid from Brooklyn, he was now appearing regularly at the speed tournaments, and getting progressively better scores. At one point, however, I had beaten him four times in a row, and he cried at least once, revealing the depth of his intensity for the game. But one night at the Marshall Chess Club rapids we played a French Defense and a very peculiar thing happened. In the middle of the game Bobby made a strong move and I suddenly had an almost physical sense of the power emanating from it. And Bobby moved again with the same effect; it was as if he was playing with dynamic rays of force that I had a heightened sensitivity to. It happened once more, and my position was busted, as the coffee house players would say. I never won another game from Bobby, and I wonder if any other players have had this experience while opposing him.

The writer was none other than "Captain" Bill Hook, from his very enjoyable Hooked on Chess: A Memoir (New in Chess 2008), p. 40. The book won't add any points to your rating, but you'll be glad you read it. I'd go further, and call this required reading for non-chess players inclined to write about the game and its aficionados. Hook comes across as a very personable, very human individual, and when he writes about others, even those who might fit the bill for those looking for "weird chess players", he writes about them with (non-condescending) affection and as an equal. An excellent read, especially in contrast with those horrid writers whose imagination is so limited that they feel compelled to repeat for the thousandth time the stories of Rubinstein and Fischer at their worst.

Word was getting around about Bobby Fischer. From the first rumors of a talented kid from Brooklyn, he was now appearing regularly at the speed tournaments, and getting progressively better scores. At one point, however, I had beaten him four times in a row, and he cried at least once, revealing the depth of his intensity for the game. But one night at the Marshall Chess Club rapids we played a French Defense and a very peculiar thing happened. In the middle of the game Bobby made a strong move and I suddenly had an almost physical sense of the power emanating from it. And Bobby moved again with the same effect; it was as if he was playing with dynamic rays of force that I had a heightened sensitivity to. It happened once more, and my position was busted, as the coffee house players would say. I never won another game from Bobby, and I wonder if any other players have had this experience while opposing him.

Who said (or rather, wrote) it?

Anand, by the way, did not have a strong tournament, and it is quite well known that he is not a very patient person. In his youth he played very quickly, living only on his enormous talent. He never became the great player he could have been, and I predict he will not be.

The author of this quotation turns out to be Jacob Aagaard, writing in Excelling in Chess. I still think the comment was and is more or less insane, but Jonathan B of the Streatham & Brixton Chess Club blog, from which the quotation and its solution were taken, seems more sympathetic. The reasons I find the quotation absurd are that Anand is in fact one of the most deeply prepared players on the planet (thus not just living off his enormous talent), probably the best defender alive (and how does one defend without patience?), and in the top three for well over a decade. If Anand were a bit tougher psychologically and a little less risk-averse, especially with the black pieces, it's possible that his results could have been even better, but there isn't any player without some relative weaknesses in his or her game.

Anand, by the way, did not have a strong tournament, and it is quite well known that he is not a very patient person. In his youth he played very quickly, living only on his enormous talent. He never became the great player he could have been, and I predict he will not be.

Since by that point Anand had just become FIDE champion and had been near 2800 for some years, it's a remarkably brassy thing for a commentator to say or write. Anyway, I have no idea who said or wrote it, so you'll have to go to the S & B site to learn the answer. (But if you do know, please comment here!)

HT: Brian Karen