Which Philosophers Critique Nietzsche'S Overman Most Strongly?

When I sit down with a pen and a wild idea — like turning Nietzsche's Übermensch into the soft center of a messy shipfic — I get excited about all the ways sympathy can be earned on the page. The Übermensch is often painted as cold, transcendent, or terrifying, but fanfiction thrives on intimacy. If you let that figure have contradictions, small failures, and secret attachments, the reader starts rooting for them. Give them a person who struggles with loneliness after outgrowing their community, or someone who believes in radical self-overcoming but still cares for a sick friend. Those little domestic details—burnt toast, handwritten letters, a memory of a childhood pet—work wonders. In practice I lean on two tricks: the first is perspective. Tell the story through someone who admires or misunderstands the Übermensch, so the high ideals are filtered through empathy. The second is showing process rather than proclaiming doctrine: scenes of learning, fumbling leadership, moral slips and reparations. I also borrow tone from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' when I need philosophical depth, but I pull it down to kitchen-table intimacy so readers can breathe. Of course, you can complicate sympathy by keeping the Übermensch's problematic edges—elitism, ruthlessness—intact. The best fanfiction I love balances awe with critique, so the character is sympathetic without being sanitized: a living, inconvenient figure who invites both admiration and worry. That tension is delicious to write and even more fun to read.

When I look at art that tries to embody Nietzsche's idea of the overman, I tend to read it like a little detective story—tracking recurring symbols and the moods they create. The most literal trio comes straight from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra': the camel, the lion, and the child. Artists often use these beasts or their qualities—burden-bearing posture, fierce defiance, playful creation—to suggest stages toward a new kind of humanity. The tightrope walker image from the same book shows up everywhere, too: a thin path suspended over abyssal space, emphasizing risk, transition, and the vertigo of becoming. Beyond those textual cues, visual language leans heavily on ascent and illumination. Mountains, stairways, ladders, or figures climbing toward a blinding light or sun are classic shorthand for transcendence. Light itself—golden or harsh white—functions almost like a moral sun in paintings, implying new values being born. Animal pairings like eagle and serpent (Zarathustra’s companions) turn up as wings, coils, or heraldic emblems to suggest pride mixed with wisdom. The lion is often pictured mid-roar or ready to leap; the child appears in gestures of play or open hands, not as naïve innocence but as creative sovereignty. Form and posture matter: the overman is frequently portrayed in a heroic, sometimes classically nude, pose—lean musculature, forward stride, an uncompromising gaze. Yet modern takes fragment that ideal: Cubist or Expressionist distortions, fractured planes, and dynamic lines can portray the struggle and becoming rather than a finished, polished godlike figure. I’m always a little cautious, though—there’s a long, ugly history of misusing Nietzsche’s ideas, so when I see Aryanized musculature or triumphalist iconography I read skepticism into it rather than celebration. All in all, the symbols are more about movement (camel → lion → child), light, ascent, and the forging of new values—images that feel raw and a bit dangerous, which is exactly why I keep returning to them in sketchbooks and gallery notes.

I get a little giddy thinking about how Nietzsche’s concept of the overman sneaks into manga, because it’s never literal — it’s always a mood or a problem that a character wrestles with. For me, the overman is less a superhero and more an attitude: someone who breaks from the herd’s moral checklist and tries to make their own values through struggle. In practice that shows up in characters who reject received morality, who create rules out of pain and choice, or who push themselves into monstrous growth. Look at 'Berserk' — Griffith preaches destiny and becomes a horrific godlike figure, which reads like a perversion of the will-to-power; Guts is the flip side, embodying relentless self-overcoming without pretending to be a ruler of values. Manga often dramatizes Nietzschean themes through tragedy or irony. 'Death Note' lets Light Yagami play at being judge and creator of values until hubris and reality eat him alive; 'JoJo's Bizarre Adventure' gives us flamboyant individuals — Dio or later protagonists — who insist upon their singular destiny and sheer force of will. Sometimes it's more subtle: Saitama in 'One-Punch Man' captures the ennui of someone who’s achieved unbeatable power and now must find purpose, which is very Nietzschean in a melancholic way. Mostly, though, I see manga using the overman to question: who gets to define 'higher' and at what cost? Those gray moral zones are the juicy part for readers like me — it’s less about supporting tyranny and more about asking how a person becomes themselves in a world that punishes uniqueness.

When I flip through a stack of comics late at night I can almost trace Nietzsche’s fingerprints across the panels — not literally, but in the way creators toy with the idea of what a superior human might be. The core of the 'Übermensch' or overman from 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra'—the project of self-creation, the refusal of herd morals, the drive to make new values—shows up everywhere: in the unshakable confidence of a Superman who seems to live beyond ordinary morality, in the brutal efficiency of characters who take it upon themselves to remake the world. But it's important to separate inspiration from literal adoption. Most superhero stories appropriate the image of transcendence and then complicate it, because a literal Nietzschean overman who supersedes morality makes for a troubling protagonist on page and screen. Take 'Watchmen' as a textbook example: Ozymandias reads like a twisted Übermensch, someone who rationalizes mass murder for a higher goal. The story forces readers to ask whether a superior intellect grants the right to rewrite values for everyone. Contrast that with 'All-Star Superman', which treats Superman’s power as an invitation to embody noble ideals rather than to legislate values alone. Those two takes show the split: is the hero a creator of values or an exemplar of them? I find this tension endlessly fun to dissect because it mirrors our cultural anxieties. Modern superhero narratives often stage Nietzschean themes against checks and balances—friends, institutions, or the hero’s own conscience—to avoid glorifying unconstrained will to power. As a fan, I love when a story leans into that moral friction instead of offering easy answers; it keeps me turning pages and thinking long after the credits roll.

When I sit with Nietzsche's idea of the overman, it feels less like a neat philosophical formula and more like a dare whispered on a late night walk. The overman in 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' responds to the collapse of old certainties — the death of God — by proposing that humans must become creators of new values. That creative leap is precisely where existential angst shows up: the hollow ache that follows when inherited meanings evaporate, leaving raw freedom, responsibility, and the terrifying prospect of having to invent yourself. Existentialists like Sartre and Camus framed that hollow as absurdity or nausea in 'Being and Nothingness' and 'The Myth of Sisyphus', but Nietzsche flips the script. For him, angst can be catalytic; the overman confronts the abyss and says yes — an active affirmation, or 'amor fati', the love of one’s fate. Still, I find it helpful to be frank: this isn’t a cozy prescription. Striving to be an overman often deepens existential strain because it demands relentless self-overcoming, a refusal to hide behind social roles or comforting ideologies. It’s creative, yes, but also exhausting. I often think about characters who embody this tension: someone like the protagonist in 'Neon Genesis Evangelion' struggles with voids of meaning yet is pushed toward self-definition. For me, the takeaway isn’t to eradicate angst but to treat it as raw material — a signal that the old map doesn’t fit and that I might sketch a new one, imperfectly, inch by inch.

What draws me into debates about Nietzsche's overman is how impossibly fertile and slippery the idea is—like a character who refuses to sit still on the page. Scholars argue because 'Übermensch' resists a single, neat definition: is it a moral ideal, a dramatic persona, a rhetorical provocation, or a literary archetype? Part of the fuss comes from language. Translators have offered 'overman', 'superman', and other renderings, each carrying different cultural baggage. 'Superman' instantly evokes comics and heroic masculinity; 'overman' feels colder, more clinical. That tiny semantic fork changes how critics read authors who quote or allude to Nietzsche. Then there's Nietzsche's style to reckon with: aphorism, parable, poetry. 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' isn't a philosophical tract in the strict analytic sense; it's a performative text. When a novelist echoes the Zarathustrian tone or stages a charismatic outsider, some readers map the overman onto a character, while others see parody or critique. Historical misuse adds fuel—infamous appropriations by political movements warp the concept, so literary scholars unpack reception history as much as textual meaning. Feminist, postcolonial, and psychoanalytic critics all bring different tools: one analyzes gender and power in depictions of the overman, another reads it as imperial fantasy, a third traces psychological drives in individual characters. Personally I like how messy it gets. That muddle invites cross-genre play—think of how 'Thus Spoke Zarathustra' pops up in modern novels, films, and even comics—and pushes readers to confront ethics, aesthetics, and politics at once. Debating the overman isn't just academic hair-splitting; it's how we test the limits of interpretation and how literature continues to talk back to philosophy.

Honestly, when I trace the lineage of 20th-century novels I get a little giddy — Nietzsche’s Übermensch isn’t just a philosophical footnote, it’s a creative spark that lots of writers borrowed, argued with, and rewrote. The big, obvious way it shows up is thematic: the idea of rejecting received morality and trying to create your own values shows up in characters who refuse the script society handed them. Think of 'Steppenwolf' and its tortured urge to transcend the petty middle-class life, or the brittle, self-fashioned heroes in 'The Fountainhead' and 'Atlas Shrugged' who seem to be auditioning for a Nietzschean crown even as they carry their own baggage. Those novels aren’t Nietzsche’s clones, but they wear his fingerprints. Formally, Nietzsche’s style — aphoristic bursts, poetic polemics, provocations — encouraged modernists to break linear storytelling. The fractured self, the unreliable narrator, the glorification and critique of will-to-power: all of that found literary shapes across the century. Some writers embraced the Übermensch as an ideal; others used it to warn about hubris. Post-World War II literature, for example, often reacts against the idea — novels like 'Lord of the Flies' or the darker readings of power show how “self-overcoming” can mutate into domination without ethics. That political misreading (and later appropriation) of Nietzsche also forced authors to engage with his ideas more critically. On a personal level, flipping between Nietzsche’s aphorisms and 20th-century fiction always feels like hearing a conversation across decades. One novel takes his challenge to revalue values and runs with it; another interrogates the cost of that running. For readers who love characters who push limits, Nietzsche’s Übermensch is like a philosophical flashlight — it lights paths that lots of novelists happily explored, twisted, or stomped out.

Reading YA that flirts with Nietzsche's ideas feels like finding a secret map in the margins of a school textbook — exciting, a little dangerous, and full of detours. I often see writers take the core of the 'Übermensch' — self-overcoming, creation of values, refusal to accept stale norms — and translate it into bite-sized, emotionally honest moments: a protagonist choosing to leave a safe-but-stifling community, crafting their own moral code after a betrayal, or training through repeated failures until they become something new. Instead of abstract proclamations, the philosophy lives in scenes: a midnight conversation with a flawed mentor, a rite of passage that ends in unexpected compassion, or a test where the smart choice is to refuse easy power rather than hoard it. Practically, writers soften the elitist edges by centering vulnerability and relationships. Power is shown as responsibility, not domination; consequences are visceral (loss, loneliness, moral compromise). Many novels riff on the theme through genre trappings: dystopian trials, fantasy quests, or school clubs that double as laboratories for ethics. Examples that come to mind are the ethical fallout in 'Ender''s Game', the identity tests in 'Divergent', and the corrosive spectacle in 'The Hunger Games' — all rework ideas about exceptional individuals while exposing costs. Good YA usually resists glorifying a solitary “superior” human; instead it frames self-overcoming as iterative, communal, and messy. As a reader, I love when a book gives me a character who aspires to become better but keeps tripping over their own flaws — it feels honest and useful for teens figuring out who they want to be, not who they’re told to be.