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>Darrach certainly misused Fischer’s trust and made a >caricature out of him but through the caricature the >real Fischer is visible. When I compare Darrachs >portrait with Petra Dautov’s portrait and >the way Geuzendam and Greengard described Fischer I do >see a continues line. The film footage in the Dutch >documentairy confirm the odd way Fischer walks, >especially his incredible speed. > >Darrach did speak with many people and "snooped and >wormed his way around attempting to find out as many >intimate details in Bobby's skeleton closet as he >could" > >It is said that Darrach (deceased now, by the way) >portrayed Bobby in a particularly unflattering light, >physically at least, because he himself was a gnomish >creature. For your interest, here is that part of the >book: > >The tanned and vigorous young man who boarded the >plane at Los Angeles would stand out in any gathering. >Bobby is tall and broad-shouldered; his face is >clean-cut, masculine, and attractive. But on second >glance, this impression dislocates into a number of >odd parts. His head, for instance. That amazing brain >is lodged in a small oval skull that does not reach >very far above the ears. His low forehead makes his >jaw look strange, at a certain angles almost >Neanderthal. When he feels weak or uncertain he >resembles the dopey kid Jerry Lewis used to portray. >Yet there is a sense of danger about Bobby. When he is >angry or confident his face is alert but unthinking, >the face of a big wild animal that hunts for a living. >His eyes are like a tiger’s, with the same >yellow-green serenity and frightening emptiness. When >he laughs, his wide, full-lipped mouth opens into a >happy cave filled with white teeth. Most of his facial >expressions are rudimentary displays of fear, hunger, >anger, pleasure, pain, suspicion, interest-all the >emotions a man or animal can have without feeling >close to any other man or animal. I have rarely seen >him register sympathy, invitation, acknowledgement, >humor, tenderness, playfulness. And never love. >Bobby wears a business suit about as naturally as a >python wears a necktie. He stands six one, weighs >close to 190, and a padded jacket makes his shoulders >seem so wide his head looks “like a pea sitting on a >ruler,” somebody said. His Torso is flaccid, his arms >girlishly soft. But his hips and thighs are powerful >and his movements vigorous. Sometimes they are >comically awkward. Bobby walks twice as fast as the >average hiker, but he walks the way a hen runs-and >this hen fills a doorway. He comes on head forward, >feet wide apart and toes turned in, shoulders lurching >side to side, elbows stuck out, fingers flipping. >Fastening his eyes on a point about four miles distant >and slightly above everybody else’s head, he charges >toward it through the densest crowds. >Bobby functions like Frankenstein’s creature, a man >made of fragments connected by wires and animated by a >monstrous will. When the will collapses or the wires >cross, Bobby cannot execute the simplest acts. When he >losses interest in a line of thoughts, his legs may >simply give out, and he will shuffle off to bed like >an old man. Once, when I asked him a question while he >was eating, his circuits got so befuddled that he >jabbed his fork into his cheek. > >Bobby Fischer vs. the Rest of the World, page 13.
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