Breaking the Clock: Kitaro Nishida’s Take on Law and Action

By Unknown author – philosophiejaponaise.blogspot.com [1], Public Domain

Time. It’s the cruelest invention. The big ticking master that watches over you, laughing as you stumble from one bad decision to the next.

We invent calendars, clocks, schedules—little lies to make ourselves feel like we’ve got some control over it.

But we don’t. It controls us, binds us, laughs at us.

….

Then I picked up Kitaro Nishida’s Intelligibility and the Philosophy of Nothingness, and the man took me by the collar and said,

“Forget the clock, kid. It’s not what you think it is.”

I’m not saying Nishida’s easy to read. His sentences are dense like a hangover headache—long and punishing.

But once you crack the code, you start to see what he’s really talking about: time isn’t just minutes and hours.

It’s a battlefield where laws and actions clash, a mirror where the Universal confronts consciousness.

And yeah, it sounds like a philosophical boxing match between Kant and some drunk existentialist, but stick with me.

It’s worth it.

Photo by Sladjana Karvounis on Unsplash

The Universal: Where You’re Always Outnumbered

First, let’s break down what Nishida means by terminus major, terminus minor, and terminus medius.

Fancy Latin terms, sure, but they’re not just for show. They’re the guts of his theory.

  • Terminus Major: This is the BIG guy. Universal law. It’s gravity, it’s death, it’s taxes, it’s Schopenhauer’s Will… It’s Sauron in The Lord of the Rings, this vast, inescapable force. It doesn’t care who you are or what you want. It just is.
  • Terminus Minor: That’s you. The little guy. Frodo, carrying the damn Ring, trudging along under the weight of laws and rules. You’re self-determining, but barely. You try to make your own choices, but the shadow of the terminus major is always looming.
  • Terminus Medius: Time. The middleman, the messenger that connects the big guy to the little guy. It’s the Ring itself, tying Frodo to Sauron, keeping the whole mess in motion.

Here’s a table, because Nishida would’ve loved the clean lines of a well-made chart:

TerminusDefinitionMetaphor
Terminus MajorUniversal law, overarching structureSauron, a heartless tyrant
Terminus MinorThe individual, self-determiningFrodo, burdened but hopeful
Terminus MediusTime, the bridge between Universal and selfThe Ring, tying them together

In Nishida’s view, the natural world is ruled by the terminus major. It’s all laws, rules, determinism. You drop a glass, it breaks. Cause and effect. No room for negotiation.

But then there’s consciousness—the weird stuff that makes us human.

Consciousness fights back. It’s chaotic. It doesn’t always play nice with the Universal. And time? Time mediates the whole ugly fight.

Photo by Esteban López on Unsplash

Talking Time to an Apprentice (Or a Kid)

So, you’re trying to explain this to someone new, someone who doesn’t want to hear all the big words and fancy quotes.

Maybe they’re an apprentice, maybe they’re a kid asking too many questions.

Here’s how I’d put it:

“Alright, listen. Imagine you’re playing with LEGOs. The instructions in the box are the terminus major. They tell you what to do, how to build, what the thing is supposed to look like.

But you?

You’re the terminus minor. You don’t have to follow the instructions. You can build a spaceship instead of a castle, or smash the whole thing to bits if you feel like it.

That’s you asserting your consciousness.

And time? Time is the table you’re building on. It’s always there, always holding you up, but also limiting you. You can’t build in mid-air. You’ve got to work within its constraints.”

The kid nods, sort of gets it. Maybe they smash the LEGOs just to prove they can. That’s consciousness for you—chaotic, but alive.

Photo by Branimir Balogović on Unsplash

The Critics: Why Nishida’s Ideas Don’t Sit Well

Not everyone buys Nishida’s take on time and law. To some, it’s like walking into a smoky room filled with old philosophers who’ve been arguing for hours: they don’t like new players, especially ones who throw curveballs like Nishida.

A few would stub out their cigarettes, wave their hands dismissively, and say, “That’s not how it works, pal.”

Let’s break it down.

Kant: The Rulebook Worshiper

Kant would hate Nishida’s approach to time. Hate it with the passion of a man who alphabetizes his sock drawer.

To Kant, freedom doesn’t mean doing whatever you want. It means obeying the laws of reason, the universal rules that apply to everyone, everywhere, like some kind of metaphysical TSA checkpoint.

The rules are what give you freedom because without them, everything turns into chaos.

Now Nishida comes along, tossing around ideas about consciousness breaking free from universal structures, and Kant would lose his powdered wig over it. “Freedom?” he’d say. “Freedom isn’t ignoring the rules; it’s living by them!”

For Kant, the terminus major—those universal laws—are the very foundation of being human. They don’t crush you; they elevate you.

But Nishida’s chaotic time doesn’t respect Kant’s neat, geometric vision of the universe. It’s like someone throwing paint on a perfectly organized Mondrian painting.

Think about it: you’re playing a game of Monopoly. Kant’s the guy who insists on reading every rule before the game starts, explaining why they’re important, and telling you how they ensure a fair and fun experience.

Nishida? He’s the guy flipping the board halfway through because he thinks the rules don’t account for the fact that life is unfair and the dice are rigged anyway.

Nietzsche: The Eternal Return of the Headache

Then there’s Nietzsche, the guy who can’t stop talking about the Eternal Recurrence. “Imagine,” Nietzsche says, “living the same life over and over, forever. Every mistake, every heartbreak, every win—it all happens again. And again. And again.”

The wheel keeps spinning, and your only job is to say “yes” to it, to embrace it with some kind of cosmic cheerfulness.

But Nishida?

Nishida’s all about breaking cycles.

He doesn’t see time as a circle; he sees it as a struggle—a dynamic process where the Universal and the individual collide.

Nietzsche would scoff at this, call it naïve. “There’s no breaking the wheel,” Nietzsche might say. “

Imagine Nietzsche as the relentless gym coach telling you, “There’s no escape from these laps. Run them again.”

Nishida’s the rebellious kid who sneaks out the back door, saying, “Screw the laps. I’m carving my own path.” But Nietzsche’s world doesn’t have a back door—it’s all closed loops and endless repetition.

Heidegger: The Guy Who Thinks You’re Missing the Point

And then there’s Heidegger.

If Nietzsche’s the nihilistic gym coach, Heidegger’s the existential therapist who asks, “But what does it mean to run those laps?”

To Heidegger, time isn’t just something that happens—it’s the horizon for all of existence. It’s what lets you face death and realize your own Being. It’s deep, man.

But Nishida isn’t interested in time as an abstract horizon.

He wants to talk about action—the scary, unpredictable stuff we do to assert ourselves in the world.

Heidegger would wrinkle his forehead at this. “Action?” he’d say. “That’s surface-level nonsense. What about the essence of Being?”

And then he’d light a pipe and stare into the distance, probably muttering something about Dasein.

It’s like Heidegger’s standing at the edge of a cliff, contemplating the vastness of existence, while Nishida’s at the bottom, building a rickety ladder to climb up.

“The ladder isn’t the point,” Heidegger might shout. “The view is!”

Nishida shrugs and keeps building.

When Philosophers Collide

Here’s the thing: these guys aren’t just disagreeing about time.

They’re clashing over what it means to be human.

Kant thinks humans are rational beings bound by universal laws. Without those laws, we’re just animals scratching at the dirt.

Nietzsche thinks humans are stuck in a loop, doomed to repeat their lives unless they find the guts to embrace the absurdity of it all.

Heidegger thinks humans are “being-toward-death,” forever trying to find meaning in the shadow of their inevitable end.

Nishida, on the other hand, is saying, “Screw your tidy theories. Life’s a battlefield, and consciousness is the soldier fighting against the Universal.”

Photo by Dylann Hendricks | 딜란 on Unsplash

The Fight Goes On

The problem with Nishida’s ideas is that they don’t fit into neat philosophical boxes. They’re raw, alive. Critics hate that.

They want philosophy to be a clean-cut suit, not a scuffed-up leather jacket. But that’s what makes Nishida’s take so powerful—it’s not about fitting in. It’s about breaking the clock, smashing the rules, and finding meaning in the chaos.

And yeah, the critics will keep lighting their cigarettes and shaking their heads, but you?

You’re standing there with the hammer in your hand, ready to take a swing.

Breaking the Clock: Conscious Action vs. Universal Law

Alright, let’s get to the meat of this. Nishida’s end game?

It’s all about action.

Consciousness isn’t this quiet little tea party where you sit around and think abstract, poetic thoughts while the world spins outside.

No, it’s a goddamn fight. Consciousness is punching through walls, bending time, breaking every rule society’s handed down like a rusty manual for an engine that doesn’t run anymore.

It’s chaos, it’s power, it’s freedom, but also, it’s a collision with the laws that exist whether we like it or not.

The fact that we can act, that we can shake things up, doesn’t mean the Universal just takes a hike.

The terminus major—the big laws that govern everything, the ones that say “this is how it works, kid”—they don’t just evaporate because we get to work.

No. What action does, though, is it creates this sick tension between freedom and law.

It’s like trying to outrun a freight train on a dirt road—you can feel the ground shaking beneath you, the engine roaring closer, but you’re still running, still trying to beat it.

It’s scary, a battle between your will and the rules that keep chasing you down. And when you finally stop, panting and spent, you’re left wondering if any of it meant a damn thing, or if you were just fooling yourself the whole time.

Let me give you an example.

Think about your typical 9-to-5 job. You know the routine—the same commute, the same worn-out coffee cups, the same mind-numbing meetings where you pretend to care. You’re just a cog in the machine, ticking off the hours.

The rules? They’re set in stone: do your work, collect your paycheck, don’t rock the boat. Now, imagine one day you decide to say “screw it.” You walk into that office, look your boss in the eye, and say, “I’m done. I’m out.”

You’ve broken the system, you’ve stepped outside the box, you’ve freed yourself. But here’s the rub—just because you walked away from that cubicle doesn’t mean you’re free from the consequences.

The system doesn’t just vanish. You’ve bent the rules, sure. But the Universal law—like the rent, like bills, like hunger—is still hanging over you, waiting for its turn.

That’s the tension.

The whole universe doesn’t fold just because you decide to do something unpredictable. You can’t just escape. Sure, you can create chaos, you can act on your own terms, but that doesn’t mean there’s not a price to pay.

You can quit the corporate grind, but sooner or later you’ll have to deal with the reality of rent, bills, survival. The laws of the world aren’t going anywhere, they’re just waiting for you to trip up.

It’s like playing chess against a machine.

You know the moves. The game is rigged, the rules are set, and yet, you’re still sitting there, trying to find a way to outsmart the damn thing.

It’s predictable. It’s mechanical. The moves are finite, like a script you can’t escape from. But within that script, there’s room to move.

Maybe you make a riskier play. Maybe you throw something unexpected into the game. You might still lose, and the machine might still checkmate you in the end.

But goddamn it, you played your own hand, you took a shot at it. The rules still stand, but you still had that moment, that chance to do something different, to take the game into your own hands, however briefly.

In real life, it’s not that different.

You get up every morning, go through the motions, play the game, and somewhere, deep down, you feel like you’re just spinning the wheels of something bigger.

But every now and then, you get that feeling—that wild little spark—that maybe you can break the routine. Maybe you can go off script.

You’re stuck in a job that makes you feel like a ghost, but one day you just quit.

You don’t know what comes next, but you do it anyway. It’s action. It’s chaos. And it’s all about breaking the Universal just enough to show it you’re not some mindless machine.

But in the end?

You’ll still have to face the big laws, the ones that govern life. You might dodge them for a while, but they’ll come back.

And that’s where the tension really hits. That’s where the real battle lies.

Between the self-determining action, the break from the routine, and the unshakable laws that govern everything.

Because, let’s face it, you can’t escape the clock. You can bend it. You can break it. But it’s still ticking, always ticking.

And here’s the thing: it’s not about winning. It’s not about some grand victory over the machine.

It’s about the fact that you played.

You threw the dice. You made a move. In this fucked-up game we’re all stuck in, sometimes the act of just moving, just making a play against the system—that’s all the freedom you get.

And maybe that’s enough.

….

Time doesn’t care about you. It’s not on your side. It ticks along, indifferent, watching as the Universal grinds you down. And maybe, in the end, you lose.

Maybe your actions don’t matter, maybe you’re just a pawn in some cosmic game where the rules are already written. It’s bleak, sure. It’s nihilistic as hell.

But here’s the glimmer: if consciousness means anything, it’s that we can choose how to lose.

We can fight, create, act.

We can smash the LEGOs, play our own game, flip the board if we want to.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

As Nishida says, “No phenomenon of consciousness can be thought to be independent of time.”

But that doesn’t mean consciousness has to bow to time. It can fight. It can resist. And in that resistance, we find something that looks a little like hope.

Or at least a reason to keep going.

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