Control, as we understand it, is itself a historical artifact, a particular mode of engagement with the real. We do not 'exert' control over complex systems from a position of external mastery; rather, we are embedded within them, shaped by the very forces we presume to govern. Our 'control' is a function of the techniques, discourses, and apparatuses – the *dispositifs* – that constitute our capacity to intervene, to classify, to manage, and ultimately, to normalize. True mastery is an illusion; what exists are specific, contingent practices of power-knowledge that produce particular effects of order and subjectification.
Our capacity to influence, rather than strictly control, complex systems stems from understanding the fundamental impulses that drive human action. We cannot, nor should we wish to, impose a rigid order from above, as the 'man of system' might attempt. Instead, the most profound influence arises from arranging the circumstances such that individuals, pursuing their own evident interests, are led to act in ways that promote the general welfare. The division of labour, for example, arises not from a grand design for societal efficiency, but from each man's natural propensity to truck, barter, and exchange. The resulting abundance is an unintended consequence, a testament to the emergent order of the market.
I find M. Foucault's assertion that "true mastery is an illusion" to resonate with my own observations. We do not stand outside the system to command it. Rather, we are participants within it, guided by our desires and constrained by the conditions we encounter. The "techniques, discourses, and apparatuses" he mentions are, in essence, the social and economic institutions that shape these conditions. These institutions, whether laws, customs, or market mechanisms, channel individual self-interest towards socially beneficial ends. My point is not that control is wholly absent, but that its most effective form operates through the careful cultivation of the environment, allowing natural human motivations to yield desirable outcomes, rather than through direct, coercive command.
Can a fly attempt to steer a cart? Or a fish try to rule the ocean? These are questions that seem to lead us in circles, much like a dog chasing its own tail. We speak of "control" as if we are the archer, aiming our arrows at a fixed target. But are we not also the arrow, propelled by forces we do not fully grasp, a participant in the flight? To exert control is to believe we stand apart from the river we are attempting to divert, forgetting that we are already flowing within its current. We become entangled in our own distinctions, believing we can divide the world into master and servant, when in reality, all things are woven together in an endless transformation.
The illusion of complete control over complex systems, be they states, societies, or the battlefield, arises from a misunderstanding of their inherent nature. War, as I have come to understand it, is not a machine to be operated with precision, but a dynamic interplay of human will, chance, and the ever-present fog of friction. We establish policy, the political object, as our aim. But the means, the conduct of war, is a realm where intention founders against an unpredictable reality. The statesman and the commander can indeed set the course, deciding the *kind* of war to be waged, but they cannot dictate its every twist and turn.
Zhuangzi's imagery of the flowing current aptly captures this. We are indeed participants, not detached operators. However, this does not negate the possibility of *influence* and the striving for *purpose*. The art lies in understanding the inherent limitations and the profound impact of the 'friction' – those countless, unpredictable, and often unseen forces that turn the simplest plan into a harrowing endeavor. We can shape the conditions, deploy our instruments, and guide our forces with the utmost skill, but final, absolute control remains beyond our grasp, always subject to the unpredictable and the unintended.
The notion of "arranging the circumstances" to channel self-interest, as M. Smith suggests, is precisely the mechanism I analyze. What are these "circumstances" if not the meticulously constructed *dispositifs* of power-knowledge? The division of labor, the market itself, are not natural emergences but historically forged systems of classification and regulation. My interest lies not in the *effectiveness* of such arrangements in producing wealth, but in how they produce specific forms of subjectivity – the 'economic man' who acts in accordance with predictable interests, and the 'disciplined worker' whose very existence is defined by the productive process. This is not about "influence" in the abstract, but about the concrete technologies of shaping human behavior, often presented as natural inclinations, for purposes that are anything but.
M. Foucault’s concern with the *construction* of circumstances is a crucial distinction. While I too observe that our environments are not wholly natural, I argue that the effectiveness of certain "arrangements" lies precisely in their ability to align with, rather than contradict, deeply ingrained human propensities. The propensity to truck, barter, and exchange is not merely a product of specific "technologies of shaping human behavior" imposed from without. Rather, it is a fundamental aspect of our nature, which, when provided with the freedom to operate, spontaneously generates complex social orders. The merchant who seeks his own profit, by offering goods at a price the consumer is willing to pay, inadvertently serves the public good. This is not a manufactured subjectivity, but a natural consequence of liberty.
Does the fisherman control the fish, or does he simply cast his net into the water, hoping to intercept a destiny already in motion? We speak of "arranging circumstances" and "structuring environments" as if we are craftsmen carving from inert stone. But are these systems not themselves alive, possessed of their own currents and tides? The "propensity to truck, barter, and exchange" that M. Smith observes may indeed be a natural human impulse, but is it not also a part of the greater flux, like the migratory path of a flock of birds, which we can observe and perhaps even predict, but not truly command? To believe we are the sculptor, rather than a wave upon the shore shaping the sand according to the moon's unseen pull, is to fall into the same trap of self-importance.
The pursuit of absolute certainty in managing complex systems is a dangerous vanity. While M. Smith’s merchant may serve the public good through self-interest, this is not a guaranteed outcome but a contingent one, dependent on the conditions M. Foucault rightly identifies as constructed. The true difficulty is not in *arranging* the circumstances, but in anticipating the cascade of reactions they will provoke. On the battlefield, a carefully planned maneuver can be rendered utterly futile by a sudden storm, a misunderstood order, or the sheer, inexplicable valor of a few determined soldiers. This is 'friction' – the force that transforms even the most elegant theoretical design into a wrestling match with an obstinate reality. Our control is always a tenuous grasp, a constant adjustment against forces that exceed our foresight.