A Letter (n.) is an indivisible sound — but only one that can join a group of sounds; brutes also utter indivisible sounds, and none of them is a letter.
A Letter (n.) involves no inner act checked while one writes; it would be strange to say 'I thought of him while I wrote to him.'
A Letter (n.) went astray by error, not cunning: the poor teacher's letter wondering whether he could bring himself to marry a Jewess reached his fiancée, and his brother got the love letter.
A Letter (n.) is an inhuman way to communicate: you can think of someone far away or hold someone near, and anything beyond that exceeds human power.
A Manuscript (n.) is like a foetus, never improved by showing it to somebody before it is completed.
A Manuscript (n.) is all-too-often both good and original, but the part that is good is not original and the part that is original is not good.
A Manuscript (n.) that has done its job of clearing up your own mind can be left to the gnawing criticism of the mice.
A Manuscript (n.) gets heavier every time someone says it is almost done.
Poetry (n.) is the impish attempt to paint the color of the wind.
Poetry (n.) is a gift to the phenomenologist: its imagined formations, in originality, wealth of detail and coherence of motive, far excel the performances of our own fancy, and pass with special ease into perfectly clear fancies.
Poetry (n.) implies either a happy gift of nature or a strain of madness: the one man takes the mould of any character, the other is lifted out of himself.
Print (n.) is a claim that can no longer be quietly edited afterward
Print (n.) is predictable and impersonal, conveying information in a mechanical transaction with the reader's eye. Handwriting, by contrast, resists the eye, reveals its meaning slowly, and is as intimate as skin.