Here, Ovid, as an exile, writes:

"Little book, you will go without me--and I grudge it not--to the city. Alas that your master is not allowed to go! Go, but go unadorned, as becomes the book of an exile; in your misfortune wear the garb that befits these days of mine. . . your title shall not be tinged with vermilion nor your paper with oil of cedar; and you shall wear no white bosses upon your dark edges. Books of good omen should be decked with such things as these; 'tis my fate that you should bear in mind. . . . I would have you appear with locks all rough and disordered. Be not ashamed of blots; he who sees them will feel that they were cause by my tears.
Go, my book, and in my name greet the loved places: I will tread them at least with what foot I may."



Or, here, Emily Dickinson to her cousin Eudocia Flynt:

All the letters I can write
Are not fair as this--
Syllables of Velvet--
Sentences of Plush,
Depths of Ruby, undrained,
Hid, Lip, for Thee--
Play it were a Humming Bird--
And just sipped--me--



Later, Derrida, theorizes:

But you have not yet received it. Yes, its
lack or excess of address prepares it to fall
into all hands: a post card, an open letter in
which the secret appears, but indecipherably.

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