Idealism must be understood as a specific theoretical response to the peculiar problems of consciousness: indeed, materialism would in that case be understood first and foremost as a failure to pose those problems (and for Berkeley as well as Hegel, the philosophical defect of materialism lies in the incoherence of its concept of “matter” as such). Kant organized this problem in the most striking and productive way when he classified consciousness (the subject or the “soul”) as a noumenon and denied any possibility of knowing it in itself. Others have helpfully used physical analogies to reinforce the point: our minds, looking out of our eyes, cannot see themselves or grasp what lies behind them. To shift from these physical analogies to temporal ones, it becomes clearer that as we are always conscious- even in sleep or dreams, a kind of lower level of consciousness or what Leibniz might call sensitivity-we cannot by definition know what it is to lack that “attribute”: what Hegel’s contemporaries called the not-I is that which consciousness is conscious of as its other, and not any absence of consciousness itself, something inconceivable except as a kind of science-fictional picture-thinking, a kind of thought of otherness. But it is hard to understand how we could know something without knowing what its absence entails: and it may well be, as Colin McGinn argues, that consciousness is one of those philosophical problems which human beings are structurally unfit to solve; and that in that sense Kant’s was the right position to take: that, although its existence is as certain as the Cartesian cogito, consciousness must also remain perpetually unknowable as a thing-in-itself.p. 31-32
Compare this to Brutus’ line from Julius Caesar:
No, Cassius, for the eye sees not itself
But by reflection, by some other things.Julius Caesar, I.2.58-59
The “eye sees not itself” has many layers of meaning. It is a simple fact that the eye gazes outward and cannot see itself in its own field of vision. Eyes are invisible, eyes don’t exist until they happen to pass over a reflective surface. The first eyes we see belong to someone else, to our mother hovering above us. The eyes, a window into another person’s subjectivity, belong to another before they ever belong to us. That first experience of subjectivity is not an experience of our own subjectivity.
In A Midsummer’s Night Dream, Bottom is working out how he will perform the role of Pyramus. “What is Pyramus—a lover or a tyrant?” he asks. “If I do it, let the audience look to their eyes. I will move storms; I will condole in some measure. To the rest.—Yet my chief humor is for a tyrant.” (1.2.24-26)
But the eye sees not itself. The audience cannot look to their eyes any more than Brutus can look to his own.
On the other hand, we are shown how the world can be defined for us through the will and the wit of a playwright. The construction of reality is a collaboration between the playwright, the actors, and the audience itself.
We observe the action, and we are bound up in it. The stakes of the play-within-the-play in A Midsummer Night’s Dream are life and death for the mechanicals — they know that provoking Theseus or his guests could be fatal, and they are careful to use irony to prevent any misunderstandings. Quince points out that if they play the lion with excessive veracity, the audience (in this case the very real political authority of Athens) would “shriek, and that were enough to hang us all.” (1.2.74). Bottom agrees—“they would have no more discretion but to hang us” (1.2.78), but he is confident that they can modulate the performance. He invokes one of his constant inversions to “roar you as gently as any sucking dove”. Though the mechanicals joke about it, the penalty for art that transgresses could very well be death. Real power and simulated power intersect here. But we see that the power of the actor to move the tyrant to violence is in fact very real power.
This is a funny inversion of power. Bottom can move storms, like Prospero, but only in simulation. His tyranny is real enough to convince an audience for the duration of a performance, but obviously far, far from the real power of Theseus. What is the magic that occurs in the theater and what kind of power is it really?
The affinity in Bottom for the tyrant, his chief humor, is the classical affinity idea — bottom is tyrant and subject, we are all that way. His affinity is how he recognizes Theseus as a tyrant, knows to fear him. Because he himself is a tyrant too, a tyrant in his own life and scope.
