A Brief, Entirely Clear Thought Upon Reading Milton Babbitt

This evening, was read by me, which is to say having been read as one reads if read one must call it (that is, that which must be read or has been itself read) several articles by—or, rather, at the limits, if a name apply it we must, Milton Babbitt; eminent theorist insofar as theory itself ascribes eminence, ascribed insofar as ascription can itself be ascertained through paragraphs of two or more sentences at once, it can be said, resembling this one it can be said at its own very limit, both within and beyond that which is under and about (as far as we may be certain enough to say). At which moment Kepler, oft-derided, propositionally, it can be said (though it cannot with certainty be) has been intersected with the false dualism of Newtonian color—what spectrums await!—one proposes synthesis between, but seldom without, systematic coherence to the extent that (naive though we be) 12 notches on that everlasting lamppost should for strange reasons unknown suffice to the existence of a plurality of sounding worlds beyond and within what, within our capacity, can be known or rather—rather, indeed—can be said to be known to that extent through which mellifluous speech rises to the given of proposition at that very point of intersection itself; not once can it be inhabited, but never may we be so foolish as to settle when the inhabitation itself sufficiently ensures such systematic coherence to the extent that sufficiency itself may cohere.