The Grammar of Angels is quite an extraordinary book, as would be any book that did justice to its subject. Pico della Mirandola was a Renaissance prodigy, a fantastical creature of truly polymathic scope, a precocious syncretistic apothecary blending philosophical and mystical texts with Catholic teachings and his own imagination into a sequence of no fewer than 900 theses — a “Manifesto of the Renaissance” — that, at the age of 23 he perhaps unwisely demanded be considered and acknowledged by Pope Innocent VIII.
The Vatican, less enthusiastic about the Jewish Kabbalah, Hermes Trismegistus and the teachings of Zoroaster than the impudent young man from Modena, pronounced them, “In part heretical, in part the flower of heresy; … scandalous and offensive to pious ears; most do nothing but reproduce the errors of pagan philosophers […] others are capable of inflaming the impertinence of the Jews; a number of them, finally, under the pretext of ‘natural philosophy’, favour arts [viz magic] that are enemies to the Catholic faith and to the human race.” All the things that make him so fascinating to the modern reader, of course.
Pico’s compendium became the first printed book to be banned by the Church and the vast majority of copies were burned. Pico himself escaped with his life, but his liberty and access to the public square were severely compromised for the scant remaining years of his life before he died in 1494, at just 31 — of what subsequent analyses have demonstrated was arsenic poisoning. It was a tragic end to a remarkable intellect, an insatiable curiosity and a true Renaissance man, a von Neumann perhaps to Leonardo’s Einstein.
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Wilson-Lee’s biography does him something approaching justice as a comprehensive account but he is at pains to emphasise that this — to “follow Pico into every labyrinth to which his thinking called him” — is not his intention. Rather he follows one thread of Pico’s tapestry — that which the subtitle summarises as “a search for the magical powers of sublime language”. This promise — that there is a higher language, a voice devoid of meaning in the usual syntactical sense but rather capable of wordlessly communicating and inducing mental states, euphoria, ecstasy and enlightenment, the sublime expanses of the universe (or indeed their opposites) — is one I have always found plausible and tantalising, as well as worth knowing about as a working stand-up comedian.
For Pico, this was all part of his attempt to reconcile the “infinite expanse” of Plato’s idealism and the “meticulous precision” of Aristotle’s empirical materialism. The great divide in ancient Greek thought had survived unresolved into 15th Century Italy, memorably captured in Raphael’s iconic fresco “The School of Athens” — the “Sgt Pepper’s” album cover of its day. The only figure breaking the fourth wall and making cheeky eye contact with the spectator is incidentally thought to be Pico himself.
Raphael’s butterfly arrangement of great philosophers arranged either side of the central duo illustrates a schism which Christian theology from St Augustine to St Thomas Aquinas had long attempted to reconcile through the Church. (It is also, by remarkable coincidence, the central aspiration of my upcoming Edinburgh Fringe show “Staring at the Sun”, though perhaps in my case with the bathos of inevitable failure more baked in and played for comic effect.)
Of the two, Plato had been the more fascinated by the effect certain pre-verbal chants, such as those used by nursemaids, as well as more explicitly mystical murmurings, have on the listener. But Pico went much further with his investigations, from his determination to master Arabic so that he could “hear Mohammed speaking in his own language”, to his development of his own code based on the “hidden” meanings in single Hebrew words such as “beresit” (in the beginning).
The book successfully runs a sub-plot alongside this in which Pico’s near lifelong friend Savonarola masters these dark arts to considerably more telling and devastating effect than his young theoretical accomplice, culminating ultimately in the notorious Bonfire of the Vanities. It would make a great movie, certainly better than the actual Bonfire of the Vanities. Amadeus meets The Name of the Rose.
Also notable is Pico’s probable one time lover Agnolo Ambrogini, known as Poliziano, famed poet and librettist for the opera Orpheo which dared to score classical mythology’s most feted master of irresistible musical induction. (I’m thinking Timothy Chalomet.)
It might turn out we are all singing from the same hymn book after all
But the epilogue (“Sublime and Superorganism”) acknowledges how much deeper one could go into the themes. So universal is the intuition that auditory vibrations — pitch, melody, harmony and voice — have a power unique among the senses to communicate the supernatural, the beyond — to hypnotise, beguile, seduce and entrance — that one could usefully compile a world gazetteer or almanac. It might turn out we are all singing from the same hymn book after all.
Wilson-Lee mentions the discovery of Christian missions in the former Aztec empire that the people believed their world had been sung into being — a scenario that will be familiar to those who have studied Tolkien beyond and before The Ring. His creation mythos in The Silmarillion describes the origins of the world in the development of a musical theme of Ilúvatar, until a distinctly Miltonian mutineer by the name of Melkor, “broke from the harmony of the music to develop his own song”.
Wilson-Lee also finally acknowledges here the most glaring twentieth century example of the occult power of speech to overwhelm rational thought, even (especially?) when robbed of referents, in the form of the dark rhetorical power of Adolf Hitler — thus resolving a dissonant chord that had been lingering since the book’s opening passage. There is even a mention of “ASMR” — those popular videos usually featuring an attractive young woman mic’ed in such a way as to make it feel as though she is whispering breathily in your ear about matters of the most intimate triviality, as she measures you for a new suit.
Comedy, sadly, is not mentioned, though I do understand why. It does feel profane, in a quest for speech that can commune with angels, or draw down demons. Still, there is something to it, I reckon.
A good stand-up routine — or, say, something like the third act of Noises Off, through dialogue and action — can induce a state in the audience as helpless as anything Pico might have dreamt up. Material matters, of course, but all comedians know the importance of “timing”, even if it’s as basic as leaving long enough to draw on a phantom cigarette before delivering the punchline. But there is more to it than that. Some great comedians can elevate workmanlike material with a combination of vocal effects, accents, impressions and sound effects and even, in small doses, deliberately running short of breath, misjudging timing as it were to suggest the act has been sabotaged by his own strength of feeling. Once you have the fly wheel really spinning, meanwhile, a simple word like “Right?” can get the laugh all over again, and again, and again.
On one memorable occasion, I found myself in The Hague at a comedy festival where I was due to perform in English, laughing along with the audience — genuinely, happily — to a routine of which I could not understand a single word. The rhythm of the comic’s speech and the familiarity of the audience reaction were all some part of me needed to get the gag.
Another aspect of the art, perhaps not entirely appreciated by Pico, is the importance of listening en masse. We discovered by its absence during lockdown that any good joke is at least half audience. Hearing the same note, all receiving the comic prompt at the same moment is crucial to provoking an actual laugh, rather than a clerical smile of assent. Jokes that usually kill, cracked on Zoom calls with no audience monitor suddenly felt like the scrape of a chair leg on a lino floor.
The book mentions the sounding vases or acoustic jars, mentioned by Vitruvius and placed in walls during classical antiquity and the middle ages to enhance and amplify the voices of those singing; likewise the discovery that bells and strings resonate at the frequency of a neighbour was identified as significant by Pythagoras in the very dawn of philosophy. We are not so very different, ewe and eye.
There is nothing quite like singing, or laughing, in a choir
Whatever the art might be in plucking us in harmony, it remains for me the root chord of human satisfaction. Whether prompted by the voices of Orpheus and his lyre and the still sweet music of Poliziano, the host of actual angels a capella on the head of a pin, or the material I have lined up for you lucky people in Edinburgh this summer, there is nothing quite like singing, or laughing, in a choir.
P.S. I both read the book and listened to the Audible version read by the author. Given the subject matter, he was under some scrutiny and I am pleased to confirm he does a cracking job, especially with the passages of “gibberish, backwards speak and nonsense” that he suggests you read out loud yourself to get the full effect!
