ABSTRACT
In the studio apartment of György Lukács (1885-1971), overlooking the Danube, in the small room left the same way as it was when he got up the last time to walk to his bed before his death, right behind the writing table, packed with manuscripts, books, notes, and cigars, there is the oeuvre of Søren Kierkegaard,1 just on the level that is easiest to reach by hand, right as one stands up from the armchair and turns to the bookshelves. For Hegel one has to bend, for Goethe to walk to the other room, even Marx and Engels are at a distance.
