If we compare Lukacs with a 'proletarian' poet like Attila Jozsef, we have to acknowledge that a statue of the former expresses nothing save the manner in which books diminish men, whereas the sitting statue of the latter kindles a quite different and comradely feeling in us.
There will always be pompous hacks and spiteful jobbiks. The poet from the streets- now matter how wretched his life- is safe from them and makes us safe from them because his work is ambrosial. The critic, waxing philosophical, but trades in municipal hemlock.
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