I first met Witold Lutosławski briefly at the Warsaw Autumn Festival in 1972 and a few weeks later in Graz, at the world premiere of his Preludes and Fugue for Chamber String Orchestra. I was much taken with the work even though I was still very much a newcomer to contemporary music. Spontaneously, as if moved by an instinct, I went up to the composer and asked him if he would be willing to give me a book-length interview. I really had no business doing so, for I had never consulted with Editio Musica Budapest (EMB), the Hungarian music publisher I had joined the year before, about whether such a book would be published. I just went ahead and posed the question as if publication were a foregone conclusion.

Lutosławski’s face assumed the expression I came to know so well in the years to come: he raised his eyebrows so that only the ends closest to his nose rose, the rest slanting downward toward his temples. The result was an expression of anxiety, of hesitation, which coupled with his slightly nasal and high voice augured ill for my request. But the reply that did eventually come was positive. It was only a question of timing: he was a busy man, dividing his time between composing and conducting.

EMB readily agreed to cover the costs of my travel to Warsaw and publish the book: my director, László Sarlós, not only had faith in me, he was also aware that releasing a book on a composer coming from a socialist country would be a feather in his cap in his dealings with the Ministry of Culture. (Indeed, the music critic of the communist party’s daily was to welcome the interview on ideological and political grounds.)

When I eventually turned up at Lutosławski’s beautiful villa in the ul. Śmiała 39 on March 12, 1973, there was tacit agreement between us that our interviews would be devoid of any political connotation.

Let me quote from my introduction to the English edition of the book, Lutosławski Profile, published by Chester Music:50