When I think of Luciano Berio, the first thing that comes to my mind is my desperate search for the rue Thorigny in Paris, late one evening in November 1978. I went out of my way (a phrase particular apt in this context) to be punctual but the street proved hopelessly elusive, even though I had a map in hand. More often than not, the narrow streets appeared to be nameless, with no plate to help me find my bearings; they were also deserted, with no one to ask. Then, as if by magic, I found myself standing right there.

Berio had been reluctant to take time for an interview (one of the very first conversations I conducted for this book), for he was in the middle of composing his opera La vera storia. In the event, we talked—I am tempted to say—“at the foot” of the giant score which was lying open on his desk.

By 1978 I had only thought of two of the three questions and it was not until March 1980 that I was able to pose the third one, in an underground room of IRCAM, the institution founded by Pierre Boulez, where Berio was briefly at the head of one of the departments.6 He was tired, tense, and in a bad mood, having had an accident which caused him to limp. The interview was a short one—which is why he revised it two years later.

The longest period we spent together was in January 1981 at his home in Tuscany. The village of Radicondoli is typical of the region in that it is built on a hilltop. Outside it, rather further down the slope, at a distance of roughly a kilometer, stands Berio’s house “Il Colombaio.” I spent five days there, put up in the guest-house, a converted stable, to conduct a book-length conversation with the composer, published in time for a portrait concert at the Budapest new music festival in October of the same year.

Berio was putting finishing touches to La vera storia but devoted eleven hours to talking about his life and music, usually in the evenings. If he was ready to go to bed, he did not hesitate to yawn right in the middle of my question; there was nothing for it but to switch off my tape recorder.