"The man that hath no music in himself, nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils...."

The motions of his spirit are dull as night, and his affections dark as Erebus.  Let no such man be trusted."


The thing is, to those "fit for treason, stratagems, and spoils," music isn't anything, nor can they imagine what it could be. Witness Mark Twain on Lohengrin and Nancy Mitford on Das Rheingold. Least of all can they distinguish between music and musicals. As much as the love of Wagner, Gluck, and Mozart puzzles them, they are even more perplexed by a violent aversion to My Fair Lady.