The title of this third interview, recorded in November 2007 and April 2008 in the Kurtágs’ Budapest apartment, has been chosen to serve as a hint to the method I used in formulating my questions. We did not have sufficient time at our disposal to discuss every single composition or indeed all the pivotal works. Instead, I decided to concentrate on just a few pieces written over the past years and to examine them through the means of key words, that is, characteristic features that apply to Kurtág's music in general. Also, I thought it best to approach the compositions the way I listen to them: via the emotional impact they make on me rather than analytically (which, not being a musician myself, would have been inappropriate anyway). There is a curious kinship on this count between Kurtág and myself. If you read his tribute to his friend György Ligeti, you will come upon the passage where Kurtág describes, in an amusingly self-ironical manner, the way he responds to beauty in art: like a naive child rather than an adult with the keen analytical mind of Ligeti. I listen to music—certainly the kind of music Kurtág writes—with my guts, my stomach. Please bear this in mind (and please, bear with me) when you read comments like “The beginning of the second movement is quite frightening. It sounds like a headlong flight.” That is how I hear this music— but more important, that is also in a way how Kurtág himself experiences it and expects his listeners to experience it. It follows that you cannot really expect cool objectivity to have informed the interviewer's questions. This portrait sketch of György Kurtág was inspired by the reporter's avowed enthusiasm for the composer's music, rooted in thirty-six years of exposure to new works as they have been emerging. I was grateful to Fate for the opportunity of telling him face to face (whether the tape recorder was running or switched off) just how deeply, on the level of instincts, his music affected me. “You are being very kind,” he replied, “but I cannot really grasp what you are saying. Usually, at the end of a session of teaching a piece of mine, I would say: ‘And now let's listen to some music.’” During the course of the interview, my enthusiasm came up repeatedly against Kurtág's selftormenting modesty, his relentless self-criticism.