During last evening's reading, Clement was rummaging through his bag for a pen to underline a sentence. In the end, he found two pens instead of one from the right pocket of his baggy bermudas. He looked towards me, then laughed goofily at himself. It reminded me of the pen Georg Lukacs took out from his pocket when the KGB officer arresting him asked if he was carrying any weapon. The intransigent pen of the Hungarian Uprising of 1956 he surrendered. For a moment, I thought he is more magnificent, greater than Lukacs, but of course, I did not tell him.
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