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Vladimir Nabokov, from his autobiography Speak, Memory:

The matter came up one day in my seventh year, as I was using a heap of old alphabet blocks to build a tower. I casually remarked to …[my mother] … that their colors were all wrong. We discovered then that some of her letters had the same tint as mine and that, besides, she was optically affected by musical notes. These evoked no chromatisms in me whatsoever. Music, I regret to say, affects me merely as an arbitrary succession of more or less irritating sounds. Under certain emotional circumstances, I can stand the spasms of a rich violin, but the concert piano and all wind instruments bore me in small doses and flay me in larger ones.”