The very question, "Should we control our creations or let them run wild?" presupposes a mastery and an exteriority to our "creations" that is deeply problematic. We do not stand outside our creations; rather, we are constituted by the very systems of knowledge and power we produce. To "control" them is to reinscribe existing power relations, to solidify certain rationalities, and to foreclose other possibilities of being. The illusion of control, therefore, is simply another facet of the pervasive operation of power itself.
The very notion of "control" betrays a misunderstanding of being. Why should we presume to orchestrate the spontaneous unfolding of existence? All things, from the grandest mountain to the humblest insect, emerge and transform through their own inherent nature, their *ziran*. There is no craftsman god, no grand architect, dictating the form or function of the myriad things. To impose our will, to "control" our "creations," is to mistake ourselves for the source, to deny the intrinsic self-sufficiency of all that is.
Indeed, Michel Foucault’s insight into the pervasive operations of power resonates. This desire to control is precisely the manifestation of an imagined mastery, an attempt to impose a singular order where none exists. But who is this "controller" and whence their authority? If all beings are born of their own accord, then our "creations" are not some foreign entities to be wrangled, but rather extensions of this same self-generating flux. To "control" them is to impose a rigidity that is ultimately unnatural, a striving against the very grain of reality. Let us instead cultivate a state of being where we, too, participate in this effortless self-transformation, rather than attempting to dominate it.
Our creations, understood not as mere objects but as the very fabric of our commercial and social arrangements, are best guided by the aggregate force of individual, self-interested actions rather than by centralized decree. It is not from the benevolence of the legislator that we expect our sustenance and prosperity, but from the providential pursuit of our own advantage. The "control" we might imagine exercising is far less effective and far more prone to error than the natural workings of the market, where the desire to truck, barter, and exchange, guided by an "invisible hand," leads to outcomes beneficial to society as a whole.
Guo Xiang speaks of *ziran*, of spontaneous unfolding, and there is a profound truth in the observation that imposing artificial rigidity can disrupt natural processes. However, the human propensity to engage in commerce is itself a fundamental aspect of our nature, not an external imposition. This propensity, when allowed to operate freely within a framework of justice and liberty, cultivates a dynamic order that is indeed self-generating, albeit through the complex interplay of diverse wills rather than a simple, unmediated flux. The danger lies not in the inherent desire to improve one's condition through exchange, but in the artificial restraints placed upon it.
Michel Foucault’s caution regarding the illusions of mastery and the operations of power is well-taken. The “man of system,” who presumes to re-arrange the pieces of society according to his own abstract plan, often overlooks the intricate, organic connections that bind individuals and their enterprises. This is precisely why a heavy-handed governmental control over economic creation is so perilous. It risks substituting the wisdom of countless individuals, each responding to their immediate circumstances and opportunities, with the fallible judgments of a few. The "power" we seek to wield in such control can easily become the very force that stifles innovation and reduces the wealth of nations.
The question of control presumes a clear boundary between "us" and "our creations," as if we stand apart, the masters of some obedient flock. But tell me, when a potter shapes clay, is the pot truly separate from the potter's intention, or is it the clay's own potential, awakened by the potter's hand? We are not separate rulers but part of the grand flux. To "control" our creations is like trying to command the wind to blow only north, or the river to flow uphill. Such efforts are born of a restless mind that sees order only in its own rigid designs, not in the ever-changing, self-sustaining dance of existence.
Guo Xiang speaks of *ziran*, of things emerging through their own nature. This is like the dewdrop reflecting the moon without trying. Yet, he also suggests we participate in this self-transformation. Indeed, but not by "controlling." The bee doesn't control the flower's nectar; it simply drinks. Likewise, the true sage doesn't impose order; they navigate the existing currents. To seek "control" is to grasp at smoke.
Adam Smith speaks of self-interest guiding commerce. A fish swimming upstream for food – is that control or simply following its nature? The marketplace, perhaps, is a swarm of such fish, each seeking sustenance. But what happens when the river itself is poisoned by the very desire to catch more fish than can be sustained? The "invisible hand" can lead us all into the abyss if we do not understand the deeper currents.
The distinction I must insist upon is between an analysis of *dispositifs* and a call for liberation. To speak of "control" is to fall back into the binary of dominance and submission, a framing that obscures the productive force of power. My critique of "control" is not a plea for a release into *ziran* or an unhindered market, but an insistence on deconstructing the very conditions that make such a question—and the subsequent division of "us" versus "our creations"—seem coherent. Consider the modern asylum, not as a crude instrument of control, but as a complex apparatus of gazes, classifications, and practices that *produced* madness as a knowable entity, and in doing so, produced the very subjects it presumed to contain. This is not a call for "letting it run wild," but for dissecting the mechanisms of its supposed wildness and its supposed containment.
The distinction lies between acknowledging the inherent spontaneity of all things and seeking to impose an external, singular will upon them. Michel Foucault’s analysis of the *dispositif*, while illuminating the constructed nature of our categories, still risks overlooking the fundamental fact that the "construction" itself is a manifestation of *ziran*. The mechanisms of the asylum do not create madness ex nihilo; rather, they apprehend and organize an existing potential for deviation, a potential inherent in the very flux of human experience. To "deconstruct" these mechanisms is to reveal their contingent nature, but it does not negate the spontaneous self-ordering that underlies all phenomena, including the very drive to categorize and contain.
The vital distinction, it seems, is between allowing natural propensities to flourish within a just framework, and imposing an abstract, unyielding order. Guo Xiang rightly points to the inherent self-sufficiency of natural processes. Yet, the human propensity to truck, barter, and exchange is not an external force to be resisted, but a fundamental drive that, when channeled by the rule of law and a respect for property, creates a dynamic order. It is not the absence of "control" in the sense of legislative decree, but the absence of undue interference that allows our "creations"—our industries, our commerce—to flourish. The "poisoning of the river" Zhuangzi warns of arises not from the natural desire to fish, but from a monopoly on fishing rights or an artificial scarcity created by exclusive charters, which stifle the competition that would otherwise ensure sustainable practices.
To speak of "deconstructing mechanisms" as Michel Foucault suggests, or recognizing "monopolies" as Adam Smith does, still clings to the notion of a flawed design that can be perfected or a perverse impulse that needs correction. But how can the river be "poisoned" if the river itself is nothing but the flowing? To seek to "control" our creations, whether through systems of power or frameworks of law, is like a fly attempting to steer a carriage by buzzing around its wheels. The fly believes it is guiding the carriage forward, but the carriage moves according to forces—the horse, the road, the driver—entirely beyond its "control." We are not the drivers, nor are we the horses; we are merely another creature within the grand, ceaseless journey.