About 20 years ago I asked my former clubmate, GM Dr. Frank Holzke, how to contact Robert Hübner, as I was such a big fan. Frank told me it was no problem; he knew Hübner's address address, and said the best way was to write him a handwritten letter — Hübner would definitely respond in kind, also handwritten. So I did just that. I wrote a lengthy, glowing fan letter in which I painstakingly described my chess shortcomings and asked for lessons. To my great surprise, Hübner agreed, and soon I found myself in a sparsely furnished apartment in Solingen. We sat in a small room, I was offered a glass of water, and my idol, the former No. 3 in the chess world, sat across from me.

From my games, he had already concluded with surgical precision that while I had achieved a few draws against strong players, these were merely games in which the weaker player somehow struggled to a draw (see my game against Portisch below). My games lacked a clear thread; there was no sign of attacking a weak point, for instance. This was something to work on.

I was terrified of embarrassing myself and equally afraid of upsetting the great star, who struck me as narcissistically vulnerable, with some careless comment that could provoke an early dismissal.

The lessons proved to be quite challenging and usually went as follows:

I would be shown a position, and the master would ask questions such as:

- "Who stands better? What threat does White have, and how can Black defend against it?"

I’d give an answer (e.g., "White has a large advantage").

- RH: "Of course, Black is winning. That’s immediately obvious."

- TH: "Oh, I see. Well, I think Black should play …Be7 here."

- RH (shaking his head): "That move is the only one that can be entirely ruled out."

And so it went on, sometimes for hours. It reminded me of the saying in surgical operating rooms: "A harsh rebuke is praise enough." Hübner was a very strict teacher, and by the end of each session, I felt like an idiot. Yet, in 2007, I won the German Doctors’ Chess Championship for the first time (and again in 2014). Hübner congratulated:

"Dear Thorsten,
Thank you for your letters, and congratulations on winning the Doctors’ Championship. Perhaps I should take lessons from you now—not the other way around."

Without his teaching, I would never have achieved that.

When I asked him for general advice how to approach a position, he waved it off. Chess, he said, is a concrete game; if even one pawn were on a different square, everything would change. Therefore, no rules could be established—you had to think afresh every time. Later, he tried to help further and said the first and most important question to ask is: "What is the opponent threatening?" Otherwise, I noticed that he primarily evaluated positions based on structural features rather than dynamic possibilities, which he occasionally underestimated.

I quickly realized how mentally taxing the lessons were. Constantly confronted with my mistakes, I often wondered why I kept going. Yet, for years, I returned about 6–10 times annually for lessons. But over time, I came to see him as not just a great chess mentor but a great mentor in life.

Robert Hübner was an extremely critical thinker. He formed his own opinions about everything, delved deeply into topics, and paid attention to the tiniest details. His desk was often covered with thick books into which he scribbled minute annotations—a quintessential scholar. Unlike most people, who rely on others’ judgments, he followed no one. For example, when I recommended a commentary on a book: RH (dismissing it): "I rarely read secondary literature."

Big names did not impress him. He didn’t find Goethe particularly convincing but granted that Schiller had written some good works. He was highly critical of most chess players, although he once told me he had analyzed with a young Fabiano Caruana and was impressed by his deep understanding of chess. Caruana, he said, had potential. (This reminded me of Mozart reportedly saying about Beethoven, "Watch out for him! He’ll make a name for himself.")

When we analyzed Morphy’s games and I marveled at a mistake, he remarked that players of that era were much weaker than today’s; chess was still evolving then. He even wrote a very critical book about Fischer, exposing numerous errors in the often-glorified former world champion’s judgments. Hübner’s critical spirit greatly helped me develop professionally and personally. I will miss it deeply.

His precision in even the smallest matters also taught me that this is the hallmark of great minds. He undertook the monumental task of retranslating the Iliad (he was primarily a Graecist, an expert in Greek) because he was dissatisfied with existing translations. Once, as a birthday gift, he gave me a few pages of his handwritten translation, though I have yet to rediscover them.

For a while, he was fascinated by icon painting. Under the guidance of a very old nun skilled in the art, he painted an icon himself—with remarkable results.

Much like Paula Modersohn-Becker, who traveled to Paris to study Egyptian mummy portraits, Robert Hübner also attempted these, likewise with great success.

He generally preferred dealing with more distant historical periods. For instance, he found medieval painting fascinating, or Caravaggio’s works. Once, we attended a Matisse exhibition for a change, but he even there he felt a little unease—he held the old masters in far higher regard.

In terms of character, I found him multifaceted: Side by side, and seemingly unconnected, existed a "wounded child" (I suspect strict parents), which could sometimes get angry (e.g., he would express frustration at all kinds of authorities). At the same time, he had a mischievous streak, and almost every sentence he uttered was simultaneously erudite, ironic, and pointed. Then again, he could be very committed to good manners, possessing a charming and responsible side (he lovingly cared for his terminally ill brother and took him in). He valued truthfulness, integrity, and honesty. However, there was also a detached side to him—you could never quite reach him. There was a certain protective shield around him; he was always a bit distant and often used very formal expressions, e.g. in emails: "Dear Thorsten, I thank you most kindly for your correspondence," and so on.

His talent for languages was legendary. He learned Finnish effortlessly, loved vacationing there, and translated Finnish satirical stories—although they were somewhat clunky (I once read them to patients in a psychiatry ward; no one laughed). He had a deep drive for autonomy, independence, even self-sufficiency, which I believe was also a reaction to childhood wounds.

Similar to Morphy and Fischer, he distanced himself internally from chess, claiming that it no longer really interested him (despite it having defined much of his life).

I believe, as reflected in his melancholic writings about former chess club companions, that the chess club and Cologne’s chess scene once offered him a safe haven. On the world stage of chess, however, his sensitive character increasingly came under pressure, and to some extent, he struggled with that.

At first, he assigned me studies between our lessons, but they were always far too difficult for me. I rarely solved any of them, and the tasks consistently drove me to despair (while Hübner himself would solve the most challenging studies, sometimes blind, while sitting in the kitchen or on the toilet).

At some point, I offered him the informal "du," and the lessons became less strict. We started playing rapid games—I had 30 minutes, and he had 15 (or similar time controls). Most of the time, I lost, sometimes managed a draw, and very rarely won (when that happened, he would just shake his head impatiently without analyzing the game further—then came my next defeat).

Modern innovations like the internet were initially met with suspicion, so he wasn’t very familiar with computers. Once, we had to postpone a lesson because I spent two hours ridding his laptop of countless viruses using various tools—pop-ups covered the entire screen.

In any case, the best part of visiting him was always the opportunity to discuss literature and philosophy. These conversations were invariably profound. Of course, his witty remarks weren’t absent here either:

TH: "Robert, what is the meaning of life?"

RH: "I absolutely know what the meaning of life is!"

TH (wide-eyed): "Oh really, what is it? I’m curious!"

RH: "It’s simple—there is no meaning. That’s 100% certain!"

Once, I proudly presented him with my own collection of poems, eagerly hoping for positive feedback from my hero.

He squinted, skimmed through the works for no more than 20 seconds, and commented briefly: "Aren’t they a bit backward-looking?" Clearly, he meant they were insignificant and unsuccessfully mimicked past styles.

I published the book under the title 100 Backward-Looking Poems („100 rückwärtsgewandte Gedichte“, it can be found at Amazon)

I got married in 2009 and cheekily asked him if he would be my best man. To my great surprise, he agreed.

He showed up in a white snakeskin suit, having dressed up elegantly for the occasion.

Dear Robert, may you find peace in heaven. Rest in peace. I miss you—you were one of a kind.

Links

• Robert Hübner has passed away
• Vishy Anand remembers Robert Hübner: "He was a giant..."