Compiled by FischerSpasskyGuy

Although Fischer beat Spassky 12.5-8.5 in 1972, he did not hold the title for very long when he forfeited to Karpov, the challenger, in 1975 due to negotiations about how the match would go. However, he agreed to play a revenge match with Spassky in 1992. So who won, Spassky or Fischer?

"You are not a man anymore. You are a soldier. Your comfort is of no importance and your life isn't of much importance. Most of your orders will be unpleasant, but that's not your business.They should've trained you for this, and not for flower-strewn streets. They should have built your soul with truth, not led along with lies." ― John Steinbeck, The Moon Is Down

* Glossary: Wikipedia article: Glossary of chess

* Brief Spassky Repertoire: http://www.chessgames.com/perl/ches...

"Chess is a sport. The main object in the game of chess remains the achievement of victory." – Max Euwe

"Chess is all about stored pattern recognition. You are asking your brain to spot a face in the crowd that it has not seen." -- Sally Simpson

"Let a man play chess, and tell him that every pawn is his friend; Let him think both bishops are holy. Let him remember happy days in the shadows of his castles. Let him love his queen. Watch him love his queen." – Mark Lawrence (Prince of Thorn)

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud
William Wordsworth

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils

The Carter In The Mire

The Phaeton who drove a load of hay
Once found his cart bemired.
Poor man! the spot was far away
From human help – retired,
In some rude country place,
In Brittany, as near as I can trace,
Near Quimper Corentan, –
A town that poet never sang, –
Which Fate, they say, puts in the traveller's path, When she would rouse the man to special wrath.
May Heaven preserve us from that route!
But to our carter, hale and stout:
Fast stuck his cart; he swore his worst,
And, filled with rage extreme,
The mud-holes now he cursed,
And now he cursed his team,
And now his cart and load, –
Anon, the like on himself bestowed.
On the god he called at length,
Most famous through the world for strength.
"O, help me, Hercules!" cried he;
"For if your back of yore
This burly planet bore,
Your arm can set me free."
This prayer gone up, from out a cloud there broke A voice which thus in godlike accents spoke:
"The suppliant must himself bestir,
Before Hercules will aid confer.
Look wisely in the proper quarter,
To see what hindrance can be found;
Remove the execrable mud and mortar,
Which, axle-deep, beset your wheels around.
Your sledge and crowbar take,
And pry me up that stone, or break;
Now fill that rut on the other side.
Have done it?" "Yes," the man replied.
"Well," said the voice, "I'll aid you now;
Take up your whip." "I have ... but, how?
My cart glides on with ease!
I thank you, Hercules."
"Your team," rejoined the voice, "has light ado; So help yourself, and Heaven will help you too."

All The World's A Stage
William Shakespeare

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.

Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.