By Auguste Meyrat
Friedrich Nietzsche is famous for his theory of the Übermensch, the superior man who rises above the limitations of morality and mediocrity. But his theory of the «last man» has proven to be much more prophetic and relevant. A sort of counterexample to the Übermensch, the last man is lazy, weak, lacking in curiosity, and lives for pleasure. He is the product of an overly civilized, Christianized, and complacent culture.
Although there are abundant literary examples of the Übermensch, there are relatively few representations of the «last man» in all his lack of glory. Perhaps such a character is too familiar and could discomfort more than one reader, or maybe most writers prefer to imagine themselves as a Übermensch who creates and dominates imaginative realms, rather than as last men who confess their weaknesses.
Or most likely, last men are, by definition, so passive that they pose a serious challenge for any writer attempting to articulate a compelling narrative about them.
But the fact that something is a challenge does not mean it is not worth attempting. In his debut novel The Rhinelanders, the Catholic essayist Alan Schmidt tackles the problem of the last man by telling his story and imagining his fate. In doing so, he portrays the mundane and silent despair in which so many people live today, including people of faith. His novel reminds readers not to forget these lost souls, as they too are children of God, people with a remarkable past and a potentially remarkable future.
The story takes place in Westphalia, Michigan, a small rural town founded by German Catholic settlers. The hero of the story is Stephen Koenig, a middle-aged, single, and mediocre man who lives with his sister Sarah, who has a mental disability, and his brother Thomas, a good-for-nothing. Unlike most of the Koenig clan, Stephen never left his hometown due to a lack of ambition that would inspire such a change. He lives comfortably, with a bland office job at a financial consulting firm, attending Mass, praying his rosary every day, and maintaining good relations with his siblings and neighbors.
However, certain forces intervene to disrupt Stephen’s provisional existence. At night, he is periodically visited by the ghosts of his ancestors along with two menacing wolves that deny him mental peace. During the day, he is offered a job opportunity that would finally take him out of Westphalia, and he faces a romantic relationship with a woman who, essentially, initiates each encounter. Meanwhile, he uses his sister’s disability and his brother’s failure as excuses to postpone any significant action.
Schmidt introduces each chapter with a passage that recalls a moment from Stephen’s ancestors’ history. From a tribe of pagan Goths to the generation of German-Americans immediately preceding Stephen and his family, the juxtaposition illustrates the gradual loss of will and inner strength that once drove the Koenigs. Long before he is explicitly identified as «the last man,» it becomes evident that this is what Stephen is meant to represent.
Even so, Schmidt refrains from offering a mere Nietzschean allegory set in modern rural America. Certain redemptive factors complicate Stephen’s character. Yes, he is indecisive, casual, and insecure, but he is also charitable, pious, and upright. This makes him much more sympathetic than his brother Thomas, who is the opposite: a man of great energy and will, but also brusque and rebellious.
The modern world shows its preference for men like Stephen by granting them a frictionless existence full of easy opportunities, while actively punishing men like Thomas, who must struggle for everything they have.
Moreover, as Stephen and Thomas make their way in the world, Schmidt makes it clear that their decisions do not occur in a vacuum. They are the product of their local environment, their German lineage, their church, their upbringing, and the life-altering tragedies that occur without warning. Although the decisions they make are ultimately their own, they are strongly influenced by the external and internal world. Therefore, if they do not reach their potential or endanger their own salvation, the reader should not only blame them, but also the fallen world that surrounds them and seems to have facilitated their decay and fall.
After raising these conflicts and themes, it would be quite easy for Schmidt to leave everything unresolved and ambiguous, settling for cheap nihilism that passes for depth in modern novels (see my analysis in a previous column on Elena Ferrante’s Neapolitan novels). But, to his great credit, he frames his theme through a Catholic lens. Everything the characters say and do makes sense and carries eternal implications; conversion and healing are always possible, and a deeper truth lurks behind the apparent mysteries of life. Most importantly, these ideas manifest subtly and artistically, not through easy preaching.
However, due to these virtues, The Rhinelanders may present some challenges for modern readers. Schmidt is a brilliant and talented writer, but he demands more than a little patience and understanding from his audience. Some events unfold slowly, several scenes drag a bit, others (which usually involve spirits) are difficult to fully assimilate, and the characters can sometimes seem underdeveloped. But in Schmidt’s defense, he is trying to be realistic: many people today lack a strong personality, and the supernatural often transcends language.
That said, The Rhinelanders remains an exceptional work of contemporary Catholic fiction that demonstrates the great breadth and potential of the genre. Like other quality Catholic fiction, it confronts reality with the honesty and depth required by the Catholic worldview. It rejects easy answers, acknowledges the necessity of suffering, and brings love and holiness to the darkest places.
The novel not only contributes greatly to explaining the plight of today’s «last men,» but also offers a path forward and reveals the spiritual light at the end of what can be a long and dark tunnel.
About the author:
Auguste Meyrat is an English teacher in the Dallas area. She holds a master’s degree in Humanities and another in Educational Leadership. She is the principal editor of The Everyman and has written essays for The Federalist, The American Thinker, and The American Conservative, as well as for the Dallas Institute of Humanities and Culture.