A Letter (n.) always arrives at its destination, Lacan says; Derrida answers that it always might not.
A Letter (n.) would disarm the menace: put a phonetic script in place of the frog, bird, mouse and five arrows, and the threat becomes a boast.
The Letter (n.) kills: the complicities of science and politics are exchanged through a silent and mortal glance.
The Letter (n.) is not neutral for a child: the i, the foundation of all writing, rides a motorbike and stands for the penis; the l stands for faeces.
The Letter (n.) has a purely negative, differential value: it matters only by not being confused with its neighbours.
The Letter (n.) has an animality of its own, with desire, anxiety and solitude.
The Letter (n.) is always stolen, because it is always open; it belongs neither to its author nor to its addressee.
The Letter (n.) is dead when it absents itself far from breath and flesh.