By Hermann von Gottschall
This Elibron Classics publication is a facsimile reprint of a 1912 version by way of Veit & Comp., Leipzig.
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Extra info for Adolf Anderssen der Altmeister deutscher Schachspielkunst
Had she sifted through newspapers discarded on seats by fellow passengers, Sarah might have seen an item concerning the bankruptcy of the nation’s second-largest subprime mortgage lender, the most recent in a string of nearly fifty such failures. In other news, a senator named Barack Obama had announced a bid for the presidency. Steve Jobs had unveiled a device called the iPhone, its failure quickly forecast: Nothing more than a luxury bauble that will appeal to a few gadget freaks. Sarah had slept some, lulled by the clicking of the rails and the muffled whump each time a bridge flexed beneath the car.
DAYS AFTER OUR WEDDING and our honeymoon in a lake cabin, I left Cedar in Montana and set out, alone, for the Midwest. Summer of 2013 had lasted to September and it was hot and muggy. I drove through La Plata’s shuttered downtown and along the edges of farms where rows of soybeans were marked with signs advertising their peculiar brand names, which sounded more like erection enhancers than vegetables—Syngenta, CruiserMaxx, Touchdown Total—and then onto a long, straight dirt road that led to a wooden cottage.
It was ninety degrees and humid, more of the same forecast for the week, and I was suddenly aware that there would be no air-conditioning, fans, refrigerated drinks, or ice cubes. Ethan invited me to cool down by jumping in the pond. “The only rule is you have to keep your clothes on,” he said. He didn’t want to offend the Amish neighbors. I stepped behind a tree and changed into trunks, then beelined for the dock and leapt in. But instead of the heart-stopping chill of mountain lakes, the water caressed me like a lukewarm bath.