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.) 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.
Poetry (n.) is more philosophical and a higher thing than history, for poetry speaks the universal, history the particular.
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.