Knights, Masks, and the Absurd
In my youth, Batman was my favorite superhero. He could not fly or run at the speed of light, but he felt plausible in a way that Superman or Spider-Man did not. Batman was an exceedingly wealthy playboy by day, yet by night he fought injustice in Gotham City. He had impressive gadgets, lurked in the shadows like a ninja, and—at least in the mythology I loved—remained incorruptible. He always caught the villain.
When Christopher Nolan revived the troubled franchise and restored the cape crusader’s darker psychological edge, fans and moviegoers flocked to theaters. Batman Begins and the Academy Award–winning The Dark Knight were both critically acclaimed, and the character regained cultural force as more than entertainment.
One of Nolan’s most compelling features, however, is easy to miss beneath the weight of plot twists, villains, and thrills: the relationship between Bruce Wayne/Batman and his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. This relationship becomes philosophically illuminating when read alongside Søren Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling, written in Berlin and published in 1843 under the pseudonym Johannes de Silentio (“John the Silent”). The title, drawn from Paul’s letter to the Philippians—“continue to work out your salvation with fear and trembling” (Phil. 2:12)—signals Kierkegaard’s concern with the seriousness of faith. In a Kierkegaardian analysis of Nolan’s narrative, Bruce Wayne embodies the ethical individual who devotes himself to the universal common good, while Alfred—guardian, watchman, and provider—resembles the knight of faith, the religious individual.
The Ethical Individual and the Knight of Infinite Resignation
For Kierkegaard, the person in the ethical stage understands his purpose as service to the universal good. He does not pursue mere private pleasure (as the hedonist or purely aesthetic individual might), but diligently seeks the betterment of society. Kierkegaard writes, “The single individual… has his telos in the universal, and it is his ethical task continually to express himself in this, to annul his singularity in order to become the universal.” The ethical individual is subservient to the universal: he thinks and acts in terms of moral absolutes and the categories of good and evil.
Many philosophers, such as Immanuel Kant, regard this as the highest form of life. Kant’s famous maxim—act only in such a way that you could wish the principle of your action to become universal law—captures the ethical demand to live beyond self-interest. Few would honor a life devoted only to personal happiness; many would honor the life of an ethical individual who fought for justice even at great personal cost.
Kierkegaard illustrates the ethical leap through marriage. Marriage requires leaving behind a life centered on one’s own autonomy and preferences. It creates a community of two persons and often extends into a wider community through children. In Either/Or, Kierkegaard’s aesthetic pseudonym “A” complains that friendships and marriage threaten individual freedom: once married, a man cannot order his “riding boots” whenever he wishes or “knock about according to whim.” The point is clear: marriage demands the surrender of self for the sake of a shared life.
In the second volume of Either/Or, Kierkegaard’s ethical pseudonym, Judge Vilhelm (“B”), describes marital love with a chain of virtues: it is “faithful, constant, humble, patient, long-suffering, tolerant, honest, content with little, alert, persevering, willing, happy.” Marital love, he argues, is “the incorruptible essence of a quiet spirit.” The ethical life is thus marked by the slow formation of virtue and responsibility. In Kierkegaard’s terms, the ethical individual becomes a “knight of infinite resignation”—one who throws off the aesthetic life and commits himself to an ideal of universal good.
Batman as the Knight of Infinite Resignation
Christopher Nolan’s Bruce Wayne/Batman provides a vivid example of Kierkegaard’s knight of infinite resignation. Kierkegaard remarks, “The knights of infinite resignation are easily recognizable—their walk is light and bold.” It is difficult not to think of Batman here. He drives a militarized vehicle through the city, wears a theatrical suit and cape, and employs extraordinary technology—all in the service of justice. He pursues a universal ideal with relentless devotion.
Nolan’s films underscore Batman’s willingness to surrender the finite. Alfred challenges Bruce’s indifference toward his family legacy in Batman Begins:
Bruce Wayne: I don’t care about my name.
Alfred Pennyworth: It’s not just your name, sir! It’s your father’s name! And it’s all that’s left of him. Don’t destroy it.
Rachel Dawes exposes Bruce’s deeper identity conflict when she tells him that “Bruce Wayne” has become the mask, while Batman has become the true face criminals fear. Bruce chooses his self-appointed mission over his father’s corporation and over the woman he loves. He gives up the ordinary goods of the finite world in order to recover himself through an all-consuming ethical task.
A key scene in Batman Begins occurs in the cave beneath Wayne Manor as a horde of bats surrounds Bruce. The moment symbolizes his decisive movement into infinite resignation. Prior to this, Bruce is driven largely by personal vengeance against the man responsible for his parents’ deaths. Now his vision expands. Henri Ducard, who trains him, clarifies the difference between a mere vigilante and a man devoted to an ideal: a vigilante is “lost in the scramble for his own gratification,” but a man who devotes himself to an ideal becomes “more than just a man.” Bruce devotes himself to justice: “As long as it takes, I’m going to show the people of Gotham their city doesn’t belong to the criminals and the corrupt.” His mission has no clear exit strategy—only lifelong commitment.
In The Dark Knight, Batman’s resignation becomes even more pronounced. At the film’s end, he allows himself to be perceived as a villain in order to preserve hope after Harvey Dent’s collapse into madness. He tells Gordon: “I’m whatever Gotham needs me to be.” Here, Batman relinquishes reputation and even moral recognition. Kierkegaard would likely recognize this as a powerful depiction of infinite resignation: the ethical individual surrendering the finite for the sake of the universal.
The Knight of Faith: Hidden, Ordinary, and “Absurd”
Yet Kierkegaard insists that the knight of infinite resignation is not the highest form of life. The higher figure is the knight of faith. Unlike the theatrical idealist, the knight of faith is often indistinguishable from ordinary people. Kierkegaard writes that the knight of faith can appear like a meticulous clerk absorbed in routine tasks—so exact, so normal, that one might assume he has “lost his soul in doing double bookkeeping.” But beneath this ordinary exterior lies a startling interior posture: the knight of faith “clearly recognizes the impossibility, and in the same moment… believes the absurd.”
The knight of faith cannot be reliably detected. He might be a garbage collector, a schoolteacher—or, as Nolan’s films suggest, a butler. Kierkegaard himself understood this category existentially. He resigned his relationship with Regina Olsen, yet held faith that he would receive her back “by virtue of the absurd,” a posture Kierkegaard links to the story of Abraham.
In Fear and Trembling, Kierkegaard devotes significant attention to Abraham’s willingness to sacrifice Isaac. Abraham agrees to sacrifice his son because he trusts God’s promise concerning Isaac and the future nation. Kierkegaard writes that Abraham “believed by virtue of the absurd,” because human calculation had ceased to function. Abraham resigns what is most precious, yet believes that God will somehow intervene. The “absurd” is not irrationality for its own sake, but faith that trusts God beyond the limits of human logic.
Nolan’s Alfred Pennyworth provides a useful cinematic parallel to Kierkegaard’s knight of faith. Alfred is not theatrical. He is steady, hidden, and faithful in small duties. Yet he is indispensable: guardian, provider, and moral anchor. Batman is heroic and visible; Alfred is quiet and enduring. In Kierkegaard’s framework, Alfred’s uncelebrated faithfulness resembles the higher life Kierkegaard commends.
KIERKEGAARD, IRONY, AND STEPHEN COLBERT
Kierkegaard’s thought is not limited to knights and faith. Irony and humor are also essential features of his philosophy. If there is a contemporary figure who resembles Kierkegaard’s use of irony as a cultural form of communication, it is Stephen Colbert—the former host of The Colbert Report and author of I Am America.
Kierkegaard famously wrote through pseudonymous authors. He insisted that in his pseudonymous books, “there is not a single word by me,” and that he had “no opinion about them except as a third party.” Concluding Unscientific Postscript, for example, is attributed to the pseudonym John Climacus rather than to Kierkegaard directly. Scholars may debate how closely Kierkegaard stands behind his pseudonyms, but Kierkegaard deliberately concealed himself behind an ironic mask.
Colbert likewise constructed a public persona: “Stephen Colbert,” the satirical, pseudo-conservative news host. Viewers of his show often struggled to determine the true beliefs of the character behind the performance. In a 2007 Vanity Fair interview, Colbert even described fabricating biographical details because it “made a better story.” Different political camps claimed him; few truly knew him. In this way, Kierkegaard and Colbert share a strategy: they use indirect communication—mask, persona, and irony—to engage the public.
What Irony Is and Why It Persuades
In The Concept of Irony, Kierkegaard develops irony as a mode of speech in which what is said is the opposite of what is meant. Irony’s “outer” expression points beyond itself to something “other and opposite.” One common form of irony is “to say something seriously which is not seriously intended.” Irony is not merely accidental humor; it is purposeful speech with an agenda.
For Kierkegaard, the ironist aims to inform or provoke a society indirectly. The ironist either identifies himself with the view he attacks or enters into opposition to it—yet always in a way that reverses appearance and intention. In other words, the ironist becomes the persona of what he disagrees with in order to expose it. The danger is that the ironist can remain detached from any real commitment: he can applaud an idea “into rising ever higher… although… the whole thing is empty and void of content.” Yet this detachment serves a purpose: irony can induce others to reveal themselves by drawing out the inconsistencies of their views.
Irony is powerful because it grants a kind of negative freedom. The ironist is “free from the constraint” of actuality—free to speak without responsibility for content in the same way a sincere speaker must. Kierkegaard even calls irony “the first and most qualification of subjectivity.” Because it is not bound to evidential argument or objective demonstration, irony’s possibilities can be boundless.
Colbert’s Irony in American Public Life
Colbert uses this Kierkegaardian form of irony to interpret America and its cultural conflicts. At the 2006 White House Correspondents’ Dinner, he roasted President George W. Bush and the press corps by speaking as though he supported them while meaning the opposite. His line about a government that “governs least” being perfectly embodied in Iraq is a classic example: the surface appears supportive, but the intent is critical. Likewise, his praise for “powerfully staged photo-ops” exposes the theatrical dimension of political messaging.
Colbert’s book I Am America employs the same strategy. His chapter on family and motherhood reads, on the surface, like a defense of rigid traditionalism. Yet the tone and exaggeration reveal satire: it mocks rather than affirms. He does something similar in his section on Hollywood, where he suggests incessantly emailing entertainment producers and making “I’m praying for you” sound like a threat. Again, the mask is crucial: by sounding like an advocate, he critiques what he portrays.
Colbert’s irony is marked by creativity and subjectivity. He does not always argue his case through evidence; instead, he mocks by embodying a posture and intensifying it until it reveals its own absurdity. In Kierkegaard’s terms, he is “free from the constraint” of actuality. That freedom is precisely why irony can be such a persuasive—and dangerous—form of communication.
Conclusion
Kierkegaard’s concepts of the knight of infinite resignation, the knight of faith, and the ironist offer compelling lenses for interpreting both Nolan’s Batman and Stephen Colbert’s comedic persona. Batman dramatizes the ethical individual’s devotion to the universal good through sacrifice and heroic resignation. Alfred, however, suggests Kierkegaard’s higher category: the knight of faith whose greatness is hidden in the ordinary, whose devotion is not theatrical but steadfast. Colbert, meanwhile, illustrates Kierkegaard’s account of irony: an indirect mode of persuasion that can expose cultural inconsistencies through a mask that says one thing while meaning another.
Together, these examples reveal Kierkegaard’s enduring relevance: his categories illuminate not only religious inwardness but also modern storytelling, public performance, and the subtle power of the masks we choose to wear.
