Unlike my great compatriot Joseph Conrad, I never felt any inclination towards literary activity, and my English, even after living more than thirty years in Britain, is still rather precarious. However, I was strongly persuaded (even bullied) by friends to write this autobiography. Through their questions, I found myself provoked to go back (a somewhat painful experience) over the chain of dramatic incidents which provided a stormy background to the peace of which I had always dreamt as a composer. I am grateful to these friends for their kindly curiosity, for sparking me off and giving me the impetus to carry through my task, spurring me on to write details about my personal life and my creative work, which, without their insistence, I would probably have kept to myself for ever.

My thanks go especially to our family friend, Jenny Pearson, who used to bicycle twice a week from Kew to Twickenham in order to work with me on the newly scrawled pages of my unpolished (all-too-Polished!) English. Through her unbelievable patience, determination and the magic she performed on my grammar and spelling, as well as her splendid typing, my scribble became a manuscript. My warm thanks also to others who have given me practical advice and help: David Drew, Antony Hopkins, Bernard Jacobson, Janis Susskind and my editor Christopher Falkus. Above all, of course, my deepest gratitude goes to my wife, Camilla. Without her tireless assistance, and her gentle encouragement, I would never have kept away from my composition long enough to complete this book.