Chess is unapologetically lugobriphilous – it derives pleasure from gloom. An enigmatic paradox for those romanticising melancholy.
How could a sport so placid, so prosaic – where a single move can take nearly an hour to manifest, and commentators and spectators alike find amusement in decoding facial expressions – concomitantly be so brutal, so remorseless, that a second’s fallacy would completely decapitate hours of unrelenting resilience?
Ding Liren had played 634 moves – most of them unerring – prior to his blunder, in the last match of the 2024 World Chess Championship.
For thirteen-and-a-half gruelling games, he held his demons at bay – dysphoria, sleep deprivation, mental burdens. Yet, on the 55th move, his sufferance barrier had reached its saturation point.
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