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New Literary History 34.1 (2003) 155-180



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Chess Minds and Critical Moves

Lawrence Lipking

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1. Problemists and Players

"YOU HAVE A CHESS MIND," someone tells me after my poetry lecture. This is at best a highly ambiguous compliment. For one thing, I know that my chess mind is far from stellar. Although I can still impress a novice with old routines—for instance, by playing a game without sight of the board or by finding combinations at a glance—my current strength has dropped slightly below that of a master; the woods are full of young whelps who can wear me down. For another thing, not everyone considers a chess mind worth having. It can stand for cold calculation, a reduction of human complexities or sensitivities to a series of moves, or even for the habit of viewing life oppositionally, as a relentless, obsessive, competitive challenge. On the whole, a literary critic might rather be told "You think like a poet." One's response depends on sizing up the person who made the statement. Walking away I say "Thank you."

Yet a compliment might well have been intended. The skills involved in literary studies do touch on some involved in chess, such as the ability to sort out complications, perceive the thread of a crucial issue, and take firm action to find an answer. Certain critics greatly value this analytic precision. The brilliant and formidable W. K. Wimsatt, whose critical rigor intimidated his students, had a passion for chess. When I first met him I had recently published an article disagreeing with his views on literary theory, and I expected to feel his wrath. Instead he sought me out and, beaming, said "I understand that you are a fine chessplayer." For the next few hours, oblivious to a room full of people, we talked about the hobby that absorbed us. He was so friendly and deferential that I felt sure he had never read a word I had written. That turned out to be mistaken; a few years later, one of his students told me that he had grumbled about "Lipking—he wrote some wrongheaded things about me. Damn good chessplayer, though!" But meeting a fellow enthusiast relaxed Wimsatt's guard. None of his critical writings is nearly so revealing or personal as the little Christmas book he wrote about the place of chess in his life. 1 [End Page 155]

Nevertheless, a great gulf separated the two of us: he was a problemist, I was a player. The distinction between these habits of mind is so fundamental that, like yin and yang, it can be used to divide the whole intellectual world into contrary pairs—for example, Plato the problemist and Aristotle the player, or Being and Becoming. The problemist seeks perfection of form and idea (or "theme"), and arranges the pieces artistically to realize that theme in the purest and most elegant way. The player seeks the excitement of a constantly shifting struggle against a recalcitrant foe, and subordinates considerations of beauty and style to the most efficient method of winning. A move is best, for the problemist, when most ingenious; for the player, when most advantageous. A problemist needs to be original; a player needs to be tough. 2 In practice, to be sure, the two habits of mind often mingle. Most problemists also play games, and most players sometimes solve problems. Yet Wimsatt was not at all a strong player, and difficult problems usually baffle me.

On one occasion he showed me a "slender Indian" he had composed, which "has cropped up again and again in my conversations with new chess friends and has worked as a kind of touchstone. No chess player who had an acquaintance with problems has ever failed to solve it almost upon inspection. No player who was largely uninitiated in problems has ever been able to solve it at all" (HC 15). [End Page 156]

By chance, since I recognized the signs of an "Indian," the solution leapt to my mind, and its clever logic was pleasing. 3 Yet...

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