Antal Doráti was a regular visitor to Budapest. We first met in 1968, I believe, and from then on kept in touch either in the company of my microphone or through letters. He was a prolific letter writer, always by hand rather than typewriter.

Interviewing Doráti was thrilling, for he enjoyed controversy and never shied away from acerbic remarks. His voice was rather high and hoarse, and the manner of his speaking made it sound rather as if he were irritated. His voice did not match his appearance, which, as the years went by, reminded me more and more of Beethoven.

When his autobiography, Notes of Seven Decades, appeared in Hungarian, it was quite a challenge for me to interview him in public. We drove to Szeged, a university town in southeast Hungary (Doráti's wife, the pianist Ilse von Alpenheim, as well as my boss, László Sarlós, were traveling with us) and made our way to the Ferenc Móra Museum, the venue of the celebration of the book's publication. I was stunned by the masses of people who filled the hall, all anxious to meet the conductor. We had not discussed the questions I was going to put him, so he was just as unprepared for them as I was for his answers. I needed to be on my mettle to match the speed with which his original ideas were gushing forth.