Sally Landau, Checkmate! The Love Story of Mikhail Tal and Sally Landau. Elk & Ruby, 2019. 223 pp.
A distinction I've been thinking about recently distinguishes the substantive and the procedural. Once you're aware of the distinction, you'll see it everywhere. For example: when we teach, we think about content - particular facts (the substantive) - and about teaching students how to think - the best procedure for them to pursue truth on their own (the procedural). In government, we might try to promote certain outcomes by passing particular laws (the substantive approach), or we might focus primarily on setting things up in a certain way and (as much as possible) let people make their own decisions in life (the procedural approach). We could pursue equality of outcomes (substantive) or equality of opportunity (procedural). In the New Testament (Ephesians 4:15), we're admonished to speak the truth (substantive) in love (procedural).
In fact, we find that same duality when we analyze what it is to love someone. We can define it in a roughly procedural way (do unto others as you would have them do unto you, or to treat others as they want to be treated), but if we void it of any substantive content it seems that our attempts to love others will fail. Sometimes people don't want what's in their best interest, and at least some of the time we would gravely wrong the beloved if we were to treat them as they want to be treated. Giving a suicidal person a gun or a drug addict their substance of choice would not be loving. This is not to deny a "procedural" component to love or ethical decision-making, but it is a denial of the claim that those ideas an be defined by purely procedural means. There is such a thing as human nature, and while we don't know everything there is to know about it, and there is some room for person-relativity here, it seems reasonably clear that there are, at least in the overwhelming majority of cases, some things that lead to objective human flourishing and other things that destroy or at least very strongly undermine such flourishing. One can intend to love someone and have loving feelings towards that other person, and yet fail very badly to do what is objectively loving; that is, to do what is in the other's best interest for the sake of their best interest.
It is this distinction that comes to mind when I read Sally Landau's memoir of her life with (and then without) Mikhail Tal. It is clear that she loved, and continues to love, Mikhal Tal very passionately; and to some degree this was reciprocated. But all too often, Tal's love in particular was either overwhelmed by his selfishness or self-centeredness - his desire to put chess first and to engage in constant affairs - or, if we want to be as generous as possible, by a failure to recognize that his actions harmed his beloved and would destroy their relationship. Landau eventually created some "counterplay" of her own, and even that didn't work. Tal finally arranged for a divorce so he could marry one of his paramours, and that second marriage was unsuccessful. Landau moved on and eventually enjoyed a successful second marriage and a friendship with Tal that lasted the rest of his life, while Tal enjoyed relative success with wife #3. Some of their ongoing relationship was based on their son together (and he contributes a short chapter in this book), though the focus is mostly on their relationship with each other, not as mediated through their shared concern for their son.
The memoir will take one on an emotional roller coaster. Both protagonists are bright, charming, talented, and headstrong - and young. Too young, really; both are still sowing their wild oats. They were bright, shiny objects to each other, and while Mrs. Tal was more committed - both by choice and through the psychological pressure put on her by Tal and his parents - neither (especially Tal) had the maturity at that stage of their lives to make the relationship work. Their relationship worked better after their divorce, and both were very willing to make sacrifices for the other and for the sake of their son. Their mutual tenderness was obvious, and both felt a clear, at times almost heartbreaking sense of loss about the other's absence. Still, it is hard to believe that even if it had been possible for them to remarry late in Tal's life that things would have been any different the second time around. The feelings and attraction were there, but was the older Tal any more responsible and other-centered than his younger self?
So I find the book a little depressing, or at least melancholy. Both protagonists are likeable and interesting, and you're rooting for them, but at the same time it's clear almost right away that there's no way it's going to work. Many of us have had friends who get into relationships that we as outsiders know won't work, can't work, and that are bad for them - and sometimes our friends are aware of it too but can't (or don't) help themselves.
It's a genre I don't really understand, either. Why would one write about these things for the general public? It's one thing for her to be interviewed and say, "I loved Misha and he loved me, and while our marriage didn't ultimately work out we remained caring and close friends till the day he died." It's another to understand why anyone would want to make everything in public. Even if she wants to share her love life with the world, why is Tal's love life anyone's business?
Alice Roosevelt once famously said, "if you don't have anything nice to say about someone, come sit next to me!" This of course parodies the more famous adage that one should remain silent if someone doesn't have anything nice to say about someone. But what do we do when we have both good and bad things to say about someone? I'm inclined to ask, why are we interested in the person in the first place? If the bad things are relevant to our interest, it may be worth addressing those "sunspots". If not, then why bother? It's not about writing hagiographies and whitewashing the past. It is about making a distinction between the relevant and the irrelevant, and between the private and the public. Chess fans loved and continue to love players like Tal and David Bronstein because of their creativity and excellence at the chess board. We're not interested in Tal because of his philandering or Bronstein because of his bitterness. (This is not judging either man. "Let he who is without sin cast the first stone" is misinterpreted, but it's a good bit of practical wisdom in any case. It's saying that we don't need to hear about these less exalted aspects of their lives and personalities.)
This has been a critical review; let me end on a higher note. I've wondered why Landau wrote the book, and I'll try to offer an answer. It is a cry of the heart, a statement of a deep love that can no longer be requited. She cannot bring her beloved back, but by sharing that love, warts and all, with the broader chess world, with those of us who knew or were acquainted with Mikhail Tal, she can relive that love and take solace in it. When it comes to that feeling of love and grief, those of us who have lived a little can identify, and wish her well.