Your neck. I want to kiss it.

And if kisses in these words could travel too, Madam, you'd read this letter with your lips.

I sing, not to hear the echo repeat, a shade fainter, my song! I think of light and not of glory! Singing is my fashion of waging war and bearing witness. And if my song is the proudest of songs, it is that I sing clearly to make the day rise clear!

I am what I am because early in life I decided that I would please at least myself in all things.

My wit is more polished than your mustache. The truth which I speak strikes more sparks from men's hearts than your spurs do from the cobblestones.

A pessimist is a man who tells the truth prematurely.

Your neck. I want to kiss it.