I can imagine still overlooking the ice, on that bare landscape, and says nothing, has nothing to say. E 'shadow behind the glass: pure essence of pain, bitterness crystalline. Iceland: a place of mind, a perfect abstraction. I can imagine but still a great void, and everything becomes blurred. His ultimate silence violated his peace: his last flight. Now, I know it is dead, and I do not believe in ghosts. E 'January 18, a drab morning. The launches of the agencies, these clumsy words. They say it is already dead and try to embalm, to nail him to a schema. I am vain ceremonies, rituals liars. Well let them talk, let them vent. E 'was and is no more, no way out. Nothing more to say. Robert James Fischer died yesterday in Reykjavik in a hospital bed. Case (presumed) death of kidney failure. He did not believe the doctors, he has not done healing.
What do you want to change, what can ever change?
[Vittorio Giacopini, King on the run]
I learned to play chess in November 1972 in the wake of the great challenge of Reykjavik.Avevamo all maybe in the whole world, the same name with the tip of his lips: Bobby Fischer.
But Robert James Fischer, as well as "the chess master" was also the genius of individualism, the archetype of the solitude to which every individual is inevitably doomed.
So, giving up his loneliness, to offer to others, it means giving up their freedom, drowning in the meshes of a power stritolante, where thousands of powers and this is the compromise we accept that since our first moment of life.
But Bobby Fischer, from its first moment of life, cultivated through the excesses of the extreme solitude of a character irriconducibile unrelated to any place in the world, physical or not.
But you can chase your absolute individualism, to resign from the society of other individuals?
For Bobby Fischer this tension meant a perpetual life on the run, as the book reminds us of Giacopini, Re fleeing . Whenever he felt the squeeze of the control loops are struggling but the power is labyrinthine and ended each run to lead inevitably to a new impasse, towards yet another obstacle. Each time, fate, in an absurd game to raise, raised the price of freedom. And then, the blind alleys were turned into contradictions and inconsistencies used as weapons in what became a fierce war between him and the world, with the U.S. that a policeman came into being relentlessly ridiculous, and perhaps both sides suffered, finally, same fate, both losers.
Robert James Fischer, Chicago, March 9, 1943-Reykjavik, 17 January 2008, the sample.
Readings Vittorio Giacopini, King fleeing. The legend of Bobby Fisccher, Mondadori 2008
Images
cover of the book Giacopini
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