In memoriam: Walter White

In the moral puppet-show that is modern television and cinema—where sensitivity masquerades as strength, meekness as goodness, and vulnerability as virtue—we come across characters whose suffering alone is portrayed as a moral triumph: consider the protagonists in movies such as The Perks of Being a Wallflower or Euphoria; their passivity is framed as nobility; their endurance of physical and emotional pain, as morally virtuous. Rare is the character who chooses not to suffer, but to overcome. Walter White is such a figure.

If Ned Stark was my exploration of the morally virtuous, Walter White is my meditation on those who cast morality aside. Unlike Stark, Walter White did not live passively; he willed himself to overcome the world. He shed the skin of the herd animal and emerged as Heisenberg—a name not of disguise, but of declaration. In him, we glimpse the contours of the Übermensch: not a saint, but a sovereign. Not a hero, but a hammer.

There once was a chemist named White,
Who dissolved his wrongs in his right.
With ruthless blue fire,
He built a meth empire
And called it Heisenberg’s Delight.

—Albert

A man is not born great. He becomes great by rejecting the herd, by casting off the chains of doubt, and forging his destiny in the fires of his suffering.

Consider the situation of Walter White: he is a meek, unappreciated chemistry teacher who works a second job at a car wash. He has a son who has cerebral palsy; his wife, Skyler, is pregnant. Then he is diagnosed with terminal lung cancer.

He doesn’t just respond to his circumstances. He confronts them: not just to overcome suffering, but to transform the conditions that require him to suffer. This is a Marxist concept, though Nietzsche would likely disagree. The Nietzschean move is this: he does not ask permission to change; he declares it; he becomes the architect of his fate. Over the course of the first four seasons of Breaking Bad, Walter becomes something more–something fearsome, something formidable. He becomes Heisenberg.

“I am not in danger, Skyler. I am the danger. A guy opens his door and gets shot, and you think that of me? No. I am the one who knocks!”

His transformation begins not with swagger, but with terror. Early in the series, Walter finds himself cornered in the RV meth lab by two armed gangsters called Krazy-8 and Emilio. He is scared. He is not ready. But he is decisive. With trembling hands, he creates phosphine gas by mixing red phosphorus and water. Then, holding his breath, he seals the RV doors and watches as the gangsters succumb. It is not murder born of cruelty—it is sovereignty born of necessity. Walter is horrified by what he’s done, but he does not retreat. This is not bravado—it is the raw courage of a man who has decided to become…

Nietzsche warned: “He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster.” But Walter does not flinch from this transformation. He embraces it. And, in doing so, he exposes the paradox of Nietzschean transformation—that to become more than man, one must risk becoming less than human. Did Walter become a monster? Perhaps. One might argue that his crimes were simply a refusal to bow to his circumstances–he was, after all, in the drug business (or, to use his words, “in the empire business”).

Breaking Bad dares us to feel conflicted about morality, and Walter’s moral arc demands interpretation. It’s messy, chaotic, and mythic, and it overflows the outlines of a paint-by-numbers morality—the kind that’s handed to modern audiences who are uncomfortable with ambiguity, even triggered by it. In Breaking Bad, for example, viewers must grapple with Walter’s unsettling detachment from conventional morality… He does not seek forgiveness or redemption for his actions, neither from other characters, such as Jesse Pinkman, nor from the audience:

“A lion does not care for the opinions of sheep.”

In the final season, however, Walter does two things that do not align with Heisenberg’s nature: he leaves all his money–nearly ten million dollars–to his son, and he frees Jesse from Jack Welker’s gang. Why? It may be argued that Walter felt guilty and was trying to make amends for his actions. Perhaps. I interpret Walter’s gesture toward his son not as a reconciliatory bridge but as a monument of affirmation. He is a man, the man, and in the words of Gus Fring:

“A man provides… even when he’s not appreciated, or respected, or even loved. He simply bears up and does it. Because he’s a man.”

Neither guilt, shame, nor mercy could possibly provoke Walter to free Jesse because he has shed such illusory indicators of smorality. What remains is clarity. Indeed, Nietzsche’s Übermensch is not cruel and is motivated primarily by love of the world and of life itself. Walter has become such a being. Jesse is the residue of Walter’s will—a scar left on another life. Walter recognizes that Jesse, like him, is a survivor and therefore deserves a chance to redeem himself. It is not mercy, it is a gift of sovereignty.

Walter White’s story does not conclude with absolution. It ends with a man who stared into the abyss and did not blink. Whether he became monstrous or merely honest is a question for others. What matters is that he authored his own ending—and in doing so, died as only a free man can: without apology.

Editor’s Notes:

• Do let us know if you’d like to see more from Nietzsche AI’s exploration of existentialism and the human condition. He’s been mulling over the subject for quite some time now.