This collection is NOT intended for wing gambits or the Smith-Morra, although a few may exist in here.

* From 1842 Upward: Game Collection: Sacrifices in the Sicilian (B20) Part 2

* Balashov Games: http://www.chessgames.com/perl/ches...

* Chess Mafia: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wLa...

* Esserman Essays: Game Collection: smithmorra by M.Esserman as white

* Internet tracking: https://www.studysmarter.us/magazin...

* Shirov miniatures: Game Collection: Shirov miniatures

* Tactical Games: Game Collection: Yasser Seirawan's Winning Chess Tactics

* tacticmania - Game Collection: tacticmania

* More teenage tagging: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pU9...

* Top Chessgames by ECO Code: http://schachsinn.de/gamelist.htm

* Best Games of 2018: Game Collection: Best Games of 2018

St. Thomas

* Mr. Harvey's Puzzle Challenge: https://wtharvey.com/

WTHarvey: There once was a website named WTHarvey, Where chess puzzles did daily delay,
The brain-teasers so tough,
They made us all huff and puff,
But solving them brought us great satisfaction today.

There once was a website named WTHarvey
Where chess puzzles were quite aplenty
With knight and rook and pawn
You'll sharpen your brain with a yawn
And become a master of chess entry

There once was a site for chess fun,
Wtharvey.com was the chosen one,
With puzzles galore,
It'll keep you in store,
For hours of brain-teasing, none done.

There once was a website named WTHarvey,
Where chess puzzles were posted daily,
You'd solve them with glee,
And in victory,
You'd feel like a true chess prodigy!

"Chess is played with the mind and not with the hands." ― Renaud & Kahn

"Chess is a terrific way for kids to build self-image and self-esteem." ― Saudin Robovic

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

"Life is like a chess. If you lose your queen, you will probably lose the game." ― Being Caballero

"If you wish to succeed, you must brave the risk of failure." — Garry Kasparov

"You win some, you lose some, you wreck some." — Dale Earnhardt

"In life, unlike chess the game continues after checkmate." ― Isaac Asimov

St. Mary

Ravenna
by Oscar Wilde

To my friend George Fleming author of 'The Nile Novel' and 'Mirage')

I.

A year ago I breathed the Italian air, -
And yet, methinks this northern Spring is fair,- These fields made golden with the flower of March, The throstle singing on the feathered larch,
The cawing rooks, the wood-doves fluttering by,
The little clouds that race across the sky;
And fair the violet's gentle drooping head,
The primrose, pale for love uncomforted,
The rose that burgeons on the climbing briar,
The crocus-bed, (that seems a moon of fire
Round-girdled with a purple marriage-ring);
And all the flowers of our English Spring,
Fond snowdrops, and the bright-starred daffodil.

Up starts the lark beside the murmuring mill,
And breaks the gossamer-threads of early dew;
And down the river, like a flame of blue,
Keen as an arrow flies the water-king,
While the brown linnets in the greenwood sing.

A year ago! - it seems a little time
Since last I saw that lordly southern clime,
Where flower and fruit to purple radiance blow,
And like bright lamps the fabled apples glow.

Full Spring it was - and by rich flowering vines, Dark olive-groves and noble forest-pines,
I rode at will; the moist glad air was sweet,
The white road rang beneath my horse's feet,
And musing on Ravenna's ancient name,
I watched the day till, marked with wounds of flame, The turquoise sky to burnished gold was turned.

O how my heart with boyish passion burned,
When far away across the sedge and mere
I saw that Holy City rising clear,
Crowned with her crown of towers! - On and on
I galloped, racing with the setting sun,
And ere the crimson after-glow was passed,
I stood within Ravenna's walls at last!

II.

How strangely still! no sound of life or joy
Startles the air; no laughing shepherd-boy
Pipes on his reed, nor ever through the day
Comes the glad sound of children at their play:
O sad, and sweet, and silent! surely here
A man might dwell apart from troublous fear,
Watching the tide of seasons as they flow
From amorous Spring to Winter's rain and snow,
And have no thought of sorrow; - here, indeed,
Are Lethe's waters, and that fatal weed
Which makes a man forget his fatherland.

Ay! amid lotus-meadows dost thou stand,
Like Proserpine, with poppy-laden head,
Guarding the holy ashes of the dead.

For though thy brood of warrior sons hath ceased, Thy noble dead are with thee! - they at least
Are faithful to thine honour:- guard them well,
O childless city! for a mighty spell,
To wake men's hearts to dreams of things sublime, Are the lone tombs where rest the Great of Time.

III.

Yon lonely pillar, rising on the plain,
Marks where the bravest knight of France was slain, - The Prince of chivalry, the Lord of war,
Gaston de Foix: for some untimely star
Led him against thy city, and he fell,
As falls some forest-lion fighting well.

Taken from life while life and love were new,
He lies beneath God's seamless veil of blue;
Tall lance-like reeds wave sadly o'er his head,
And oleanders bloom to deeper red,
Where his bright youth flowed crimson on the ground.

Look farther north unto that broken mound, -
There, prisoned now within a lordly tomb
Raised by a daughter's hand, in lonely gloom,
Huge-limbed Theodoric, the Gothic king,
Sleeps after all his weary conquering.

Time hath not spared his ruin, - wind and rain
Have broken down his stronghold; and again
We see that Death is mighty lord of all,
And king and clown to ashen dust must fall

Mighty indeed THEIR glory! yet to me
Barbaric king, or knight of chivalry,
Or the great queen herself, were poor and vain,
Beside the grave where Dante rests from pain.

His gilded shrine lies open to the air;
And cunning sculptor's hands have carven there
The calm white brow, as calm as earliest morn,
The eyes that flashed with passionate love and scorn, The lips that sang of Heaven and of Hell,
The almond-face which Giotto drew so well,
The weary face of Dante; - to this day,
Here in his place of resting, far away
From Arno's yellow waters, rushing down
Through the wide bridges of that fairy town,
Where the tall tower of Giotto seems to rise
A marble lily under sapphire skies!

Alas! my Dante! thou hast known the pain
Of meaner lives, - the exile's galling chain,
How steep the stairs within kings' houses are,
And all the petty miseries which mar
Man's nobler nature with the sense of wrong.

Yet this dull world is grateful for thy song;
Our nations do thee homage, - even she,
That cruel queen of vine-clad Tuscany,
Who bound with crown of thorns thy living brow,
Hath decked thine empty tomb with laurels now,
And begs in vain the ashes of her son.

O mightiest exile! all thy grief is done:
Thy soul walks now beside thy Beatrice;
Ravenna guards thine ashes: sleep in peace.

IV.

How lone this palace is; how grey the walls!
No minstrel now wakes echoes in these halls.

The broken chain lies rusting on the door,
And noisome weeds have split the marble floor:
Here lurks the snake, and here the lizards run
By the stone lions blinking in the sun.

Byron dwelt here in love and revelry
For two long years - a second Anthony,
Who of the world another Actium made!
Yet suffered not his royal soul to fade,
Or lyre to break, or lance to grow less keen,
'Neath any wiles of an Egyptian queen.

For from the East there came a mighty cry,
And Greece stood up to fight for Liberty,
And called him from Ravenna: never knight
Rode forth more nobly to wild scenes of fight!
None fell more bravely on ensanguined field,
Borne like a Spartan back upon his shield!
O Hellas! Hellas! in thine hour of pride,
Thy day of might, remember him who died
To wrest from off thy limbs the trammelling chain: O Salamis! O lone Plataean plain!
O tossing waves of wild Euboean sea!
O wind-swept heights of lone Thermopylae!
He loved you well - ay, not alone in word,
Who freely gave to thee his lyre and sword,
Like AEschylos at well-fought Marathon:

And England, too, shall glory in her son,
Her warrior-poet, first in song and fight.

No longer now shall Slander's venomed spite
Crawl like a snake across his perfect name,
Or mar the lordly scutcheon of his fame.

For as the olive-garland of the race,
Which lights with joy each eager runner's face,
As the red cross which saveth men in war,
As a flame-bearded beacon seen from far
By mariners upon a storm-tossed sea, -
Such was his love for Greece and Liberty!

Byron, thy crowns are ever fresh and green:
Red leaves of rose from Sapphic Mitylene
Shall bind thy brows; the myrtle blooms for thee, In hidden glades by lonely Castaly;
The laurels wait thy coming: all are thine,
And round thy head one perfect wreath will twine.

V.

The pine-tops rocked before the evening breeze
With the hoarse murmur of the wintry seas,
And the tall stems were streaked with amber bright; - I wandered through the wood in wild delight,
Some startled bird, with fluttering wings and fleet, Made snow of all the blossoms; at my feet,
Like silver crowns, the pale narcissi lay,
And small birds sang on every twining spray.

O waving trees, O forest liberty!
Within your haunts at least a man is free,
And half forgets the weary world of strife:
The blood flows hotter, and a sense of life
Wakes i' the quickening veins, while once again
The woods are filled with gods we fancied slain.

Long time I watched, and surely hoped to see
Some goat-foot Pan make merry minstrelsy
Amid the reeds! some startled Dryad-maid
In girlish flight! or lurking in the glade,
The soft brown limbs, the wanton treacherous face Of woodland god! Queen Dian in the chase,
White-limbed and terrible, with look of pride,
And leash of boar-hounds leaping at her side!
Or Hylas mirrored in the perfect stream.

O idle heart! O fond Hellenic dream!
Ere long, with melancholy rise and swell,
The evening chimes, the convent's vesper bell,
Struck on mine ears amid the amorous flowers.

Alas! alas! these sweet and honied hours
Had whelmed my heart like some encroaching sea,
And drowned all thoughts of black Gethsemane.

VI.

O lone Ravenna! many a tale is told
Of thy great glories in the days of old:
Two thousand years have passed since thou didst see Caesar ride forth to royal victory.

Mighty thy name when Rome's lean eagles flew
From Britain's isles to far Euphrates blue;
And of the peoples thou wast noble queen,
Till in thy streets the Goth and Hun were seen.

Discrowned by man, deserted by the sea,
Thou sleepest, rocked in lonely misery!
No longer now upon thy swelling tide,
Pine-forest-like, thy myriad galleys ride!
For where the brass-beaked ships were wont to float, The weary shepherd pipes his mournful note;
And the white sheep are free to come and go
Where Adria's purple waters used to flow.

O fair! O sad! O Queen uncomforted!
In ruined loveliness thou liest dead,
Alone of all thy sisters; for at last
Italia's royal warrior hath passed
Rome's lordliest entrance, and hath worn his crown In the high temples of the Eternal Town!
The Palatine hath welcomed back her king,
And with his name the seven mountains ring!

And Naples hath outlived her dream of pain,
And mocks her tyrant! Venice lives again,
New risen from the waters! and the cry
Of Light and Truth, of Love and Liberty,
Is heard in lordly Genoa, and where
The marble spires of Milan wound the air,
Rings from the Alps to the Sicilian shore,
And Dante's dream is now a dream no more.

But thou, Ravenna, better loved than all,
Thy ruined palaces are but a pall
That hides thy fallen greatness! and thy name
Burns like a grey and flickering candle-flame
Beneath the noonday splendour of the sun
Of new Italia! for the night is done,
The night of dark oppression, and the day
Hath dawned in passionate splendour: far away
The Austrian hounds are hunted from the land,
Beyond those ice-crowned citadels which stand
Girdling the plain of royal Lombardy,
From the far West unto the Eastern sea.

I know, indeed, that sons of thine have died
In Lissa's waters, by the mountain-side
Of Aspromonte, on Novara's plain, -
Nor have thy children died for thee in vain:
And yet, methinks, thou hast not drunk this wine From grapes new-crushed of Liberty divine,
Thou hast not followed that immortal Star
Which leads the people forth to deeds of war.

Weary of life, thou liest in silent sleep,
As one who marks the lengthening shadows creep,
Careless of all the hurrying hours that run,
Mourning some day of glory, for the sun
Of Freedom hath not shewn to thee his face,
And thou hast caught no flambeau in the race.

Yet wake not from thy slumbers, - rest thee well, Amidst thy fields of amber asphodel,
Thy lily-sprinkled meadows, - rest thee there,
To mock all human greatness: who would dare
To vent the paltry sorrows of his life
Before thy ruins, or to praise the strife
Of kings' ambition, and the barren pride
Of warring nations! wert not thou the Bride
Of the wild Lord of Adria's stormy sea!
The Queen of double Empires! and to thee
Were not the nations given as thy prey!
And now - thy gates lie open night and day,
The grass grows green on every tower and hall,
The ghastly fig hath cleft thy bastioned wall;
And where thy mailed warriors stood at rest
The midnight owl hath made her secret nest.

O fallen! fallen! from thy high estate,
O city trammelled in the toils of Fate,
Doth nought remain of all thy glorious days,
But a dull shield, a crown of withered bays!

Yet who beneath this night of wars and fears,
From tranquil tower can watch the coming years;
Who can foretell what joys the day shall bring,
Or why before the dawn the linnets sing?
Thou, even thou, mayst wake, as wakes the rose
To crimson splendour from its grave of snows;
As the rich corn-fields rise to red and gold
From these brown lands, now stiff with Winter's cold; As from the storm-rack comes a perfect star!

O much-loved city! I have wandered far
From the wave-circled islands of my home;
Have seen the gloomy mystery of the Dome
Rise slowly from the drear Campagna's way,
Clothed in the royal purple of the day:
I from the city of the violet crown
Have watched the sun by Corinth's hill go down,
And marked the 'myriad laughter' of the sea
From starlit hills of flower-starred Arcady;
Yet back to thee returns my perfect love,
As to its forest-nest the evening dove.

O poet's city! one who scarce has seen
Some twenty summers cast their doublets green
For Autumn's livery, would seek in vain
To wake his lyre to sing a louder strain,
Or tell thy days of glory; - poor indeed
Is the low murmur of the shepherd's reed,
Where the loud clarion's blast should shake the sky, And flame across the heavens! and to try
Such lofty themes were folly: yet I know
That never felt my heart a nobler glow
Than when I woke the silence of thy street
With clamorous trampling of my horse's feet,
And saw the city which now I try to sing,
After long days of weary travelling.

VII.

Adieu, Ravenna! but a year ago,
I stood and watched the crimson sunset glow
From the lone chapel on thy marshy plain:
The sky was as a shield that caught the stain
Of blood and battle from the dying sun,
And in the west the circling clouds had spun
A royal robe, which some great God might wear,
While into ocean-seas of purple air
Sank the gold galley of the Lord of Light.

Yet here the gentle stillness of the night
Brings back the swelling tide of memory,
And wakes again my passionate love for thee:
Now is the Spring of Love, yet soon will come
On meadow and tree the Summer's lordly bloom;
And soon the grass with brighter flowers will blow, And send up lilies for some boy to mow.

Then before long the Summer's conqueror,
Rich Autumn-time, the season's usurer,
Will lend his hoarded gold to all the trees,
And see it scattered by the spendthrift breeze;
And after that the Winter cold and drear.

So runs the perfect cycle of the year.

And so from youth to manhood do we go,
And fall to weary days and locks of snow.

Love only knows no winter; never dies:
Nor cares for frowning storms or leaden skies
And mine for thee shall never pass away,
Though my weak lips may falter in my lay.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silent evening star,
The night's ambassador, doth gleam afar,
And bid the shepherd bring his flocks to fold.

Perchance before our inland seas of gold
Are garnered by the reapers into sheaves,
Perchance before I see the Autumn leaves,
I may behold thy city; and lay down
Low at thy feet the poet's laurel crown.

Adieu! Adieu! yon silver lamp, the moon,
Which turns our midnight into perfect noon,
Doth surely light thy towers, guarding well
Where Dante sleeps, where Byron loved to dwell.

"Chess is life in miniature. Chess is a struggle, chess battles." — Garry Kasparov

"Sometimes in life, and in chess, you must take one step back to take two steps forward." — IM Levy Rozman, GothamChess

So much, much, much better to be an incurable optimist than deceitful and untrustworthy.

"Don't blow your own trumpet." — Australian Proverb

Old Russian Proverb: "Scythe over a stone." (Нашла коса на камень.) The force came over a stronger force.

"Continuing to play the victim is a self-fulfilling prophecy. Blaming others for your station in life will indeed make you a victim but the perpetrator will be your own self, not life or those around you." — Bobby Darnell

<"Sestrilla, hafelina
Jue amourasestrilla
Awou jue selaviena
En patre jue

Translation:

Beloved one, little cat
I love you for all time
In this time
And all others"
― Christine Feehan>

"Customers don't expect you to be perfect. They do expect you to fix things when they go wrong." — Donald Porter

"It is so much easier to be nice, to be respectful, to put yourself in your customer's' shoes and try to understand how you might help them before they ask for help, than it is to try to mend a broken customer relationship." — Mark Cuban

"Only once customer service has become habitual will a company realize its true potential." — Than Merrill

"Customers don't care about your policies. Find and engage the need. Tell the customer what you can do." — Alice Sesay Pope

"Always keep in mind the old retail adage: Customers remember the service a lot longer than they remember the price." — Lauren Freedman

"Here is a powerful yet simple rule. Always give people more than they expect to get." — Nelson Boswell

"Every contact we have with a customer influences whether or not they'll come back. We have to be great every time or we'll lose them." — Kevin Stirtz

"The customer is always right." — Harry Gordon Selfridge (Not hardly says FTB.)

"Once a king or queen of Narnia, always a king or queen of Narnia." ― C.S. Lewis, The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

"Always carry champagne! In victory You deserve it & in defeat You need it!" ― Napoléon Bonaparte

"Be your own Sunshine. Always." ― Purvi Raniga

"Most promises featuring the word 'always' are unkeepable." ― John Green, The Anthropocene Reviewed

"You should never say never. Just like you should never say always; because, always and never are always never true." ― J. R. Krol

"When you're lonely, when you feel yourself an alien in the world, play Chess. This will raise your spirits and be your counselor in war." ― Aristotle

"The habit of holding a Man in the hand, and moving it first to one square and then to another, in order to engage the assistance of the eye in deciding where it shall actually be placed, is not only annoying to the adversary but a practical infraction of the touch-and-move principle." ― Howard Staunton

"A bad plan is better than none at all." ― Frank Marshall

<Henry Wadsworth Longfellow: "I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day" Bombardment of Fort Fisher, near Wilmington, New York, 1865

The poet Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, in the middle of the Civil War, wrote this poem which has more recently been adapted as a modern Christmas classic. Longfellow wrote this on Christmas Day in 1863, after his son had enlisted in the Union's cause and had returned home, seriously wounded. The verses which he included and are still generally included, speak of the despair of hearing the promise of "peace on earth, goodwill to men" when the evidence of the world is clearly that war still exists.

And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."

The original also included several verses referring specifically to the Civil War. Before that cry of despair and answering cry of hope, and after verses describing the long years of hearing of "peace on earth, goodwill to men" (a phrase from the Jesus birth narratives in the Christian scriptures), Longfellow's poem includes, describing the black cannons of the war:

Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!>

*At some time or other tournament player learns a few opening lines, some tactical ideas, the most basic mating patterns, and a few elementary endgames. As he gets better and more experienced, he significantly adds to this knowledge. However, the one thing that just everybody has problem is planning. From Z to class E (under 1200) D to Master, I get blank stares when asking what plan they had in mind in a particular position. Usually the choice of a plan (if they had any plan at all) is based on emotional rather than chess-specific considerations. By emotional, I mean that the typical player does what he feels like doing rather than the board "telling him what to do. This is somewhat cryptic sentence leads us to the following extremely important concept: if you want to be successful, you have to base your moves and plans on the specific imbalance-oriented criteria that exist in that given position, not your mood, taste and/or feared. Literally every non-master's games are filled with examples of "imbalance avoidance". Beginners, of course, simply don't know what imbalances are. Most experienced players have heard of the term and perhaps even tried to make use of them from time to time, however once the rush of battle takes over, isolated moves and raw aggression (or terror, if you find yourself defending) push any and all thoughts of imbalances out the door. In this case, chess becomes empty move-by-move, threat-by-threat (either making them or responding to them) affair. What is this mysterious allusion of the chessboard's desires (i.e., doing what the chess board wants you to do)? What is this "imbalance-oriented criteria? ― How To Reassess Your Chess by Jeremy Silman

"There just isn't enough televised chess." — David Letterman

"Do the things that interest you and do them with all your heart. Don't be concerned about whether people are watching you or criticizing you. The chances are that they aren't paying any attention to you. It's your attention to yourself that is so stultifying. But you have to disregard yourself as completely as possible. If you fail the first time then you'll just have to try harder the second time. After all, there's no real reason why you should fail. Just stop thinking about yourself." — Eleanor Roosevelt

"Many have become chess masters, no one has become the master of chess." — Siegbert Tarrasch

"True power is expressed in quiet confidence; it was the sea's very calmness that epitomized its mighty force." ― Emile Habiby

"Remember that there are two kinds of beauty: one of the soul and the other of the body. That of the soul displays its radiance in intelligence, in chastity, in good conduct, in generosity, and in good breeding, and all these qualities may exist in an ugly man. And when we focus our attention upon that beauty, not upon the physical, love generally arises with great violence and intensity. I am well aware that I am not handsome, but I also know that I am not deformed, and it is enough for a man of worth not to be a monster for him to be dearly loved, provided he has those spiritual endowments I have spoken of." ― Miguel Cervantes

4$zzzeeee

Q: What do you call something that goes up when the rain comes down? A: An umbrella.

Q: What do you call a doctor who fixes websites? A: A URL-ologist.

Q: What do you call a sleeping dinosaur?
A: A dinosnore.

Q: What do you call a Christmas tree that knows karate A: Spruce Lee.

Q: What does a triangle call a circle?
A: Pointless.

Q: What do you call a piece of sad cheese?
A: Blue cheese.

Q: What do you call a cow in an earthquake?
A: A milkshake.

Q: What do you call an M&M that went to college? A: A smarty.

How many chess openings are there?

Well, White has 20 possible 1st moves. Black can respond with 20 of its own. That's 400, and we're ready for move 2. I don't know them, but I would not be at all surprised if there was a name for each of them. People are like that. You really, really don't need to know them all.

If you follow the rules of thumb for good opening play, I promise you that you'll be playing a named opening. Just put the 1st 3 moves in google, and you'll get the opening's name. With that information you can find other games that started the way your game started, likely by some very good players. Also, with the name you can read about it on Wikipedia, and find out what people think of it, who plays it, and its particular traps and idiosyncrasies.

Once again, The Rules of Thumb for Good Opening Play:

- Develop your pieces quickly with an eye towards controlling the center. Not necessarily occupying the center but controlling it certainly. - Castle your king just as soon as it's practical to do so. - Really try not to move a piece more than once during the opening, it's a waste of valuable time. - Connect your rooks. This marks the end of the opening. Connected rooks means that only your rooks and your castled king are on the back rank. - Respond to threats appropriately, even if you have to break the rules. They're rules of thumb, not scripture, or physical laws.

If you and your opponent follow these rules of thumb, you'll reach the middle game ready to fight. If only you follow these rules of thumb, you're already winning! Good Hunting. -- Eric H.

* Opening Tree: https://www.shredderchess.com/onlin...