Over the course of his authorship, Søren Kierkegaard showed significant interest in the distinction between “inner” (Indvortes or Indre) and “outer” (Udvortes or Ydre). The former involves the life of the spirit, whereas the latter concerns an external and typically mundane existential sphere. The question of whether or not these domains can be reconciled is significant in both philosophy and theology. Prior to Kierkegaard, for example, Georg Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel had argued that the very distinction between inner and outer was erroneous, since whatever is inside must come to expression in whatever is outside. Essence, in other words, manifests itself in appearance. As Kierkegaard summarizes in an 1846 journal entry: “Das Innere ist das Aussere, das Aussere das Innere.”
In contrast, many of Christianity’s seminal writings differentiate between inner and outer, spirit and flesh. The Apostle Paul formulates the classic distinction: “Though our outward man perish, yet the inward man is renewed day by day” (2 Cor. 4:16). In his On the Freedom of a Christian (De Libertate Christiana, 1520), Martin Luther would apply this logic to his understanding of justification: a person can be outwardly unwell but spiritually healthy, and vice versa. Thus the goal of the Christian life is not to fashion a precise correspondence between inner and outer but, rather, to have faith in God, who, in the person of Jesus Christ, demonstrates that salvation is not a matter of outward perfection but of inward fidelity to the will of the Father. To realize this point, Luther concludes, is to gain one’s freedom from the world, which falsely places its trust in external things such as manner of dress or ritual practice.
On the whole, Kierkegaard accepts the Pauline-Lutheran distinction between inner and outer and, in turn, seeks to undermine the Hegelian marriage of the two domains. This undermining is often understated. For example, Victor Eremita, the pseudonymous editor of Either/Or (1843) hazily observes that life “at times” gives one cause to “doubt somewhat the accuracy of the familiar philosophical sentence that the outer is the inner and the inner is the outer.” Ironically, however, Either/Or goes on to prove Victor’s statement, insofar as the character of Johannes the Seducer, whose diary concludes the book’s first part, is able to manipulate others (especially women) precisely by fashioning a genial outer self that disguises his diabolical inner one. This point is reiterated in Fear and Trembling, albeit in a very different way. According to the pseudonym Johannes de silentio, the ethical presumes a correspondence between inner and outer, while faith prioritizes the inner over the outer, lest faith become something one can earn, exploit, or possess. Indeed, part of the burden of the biblical patriarch Abraham is that his inner religious devotion (Gen. 22) cannot be translated into an outer expression that would be sanctioned by societal mores.
It is, admittedly, a tricky problem. But that has hardly stopped artists and thinkers from continuing to ponder it. Two prominent recent examples are the TV series developed by American auteur Vince Gilligan, namely, Breaking Bad (2008-13) and Better Call Saul (2015-22). Both are considered among the best shows in television history, and both trenchantly explore the inner/outer distinction. Breaking Bad centers on Walter White—an ostensibly decent husband and father of two who, after a grim cancer diagnosis, seeks to make quick money for his family. Thus he uses his background in chemistry to make meth and, in time, emerges as the Southwest’s most notorious drug kingpin. Throughout the show, the contradiction between appearance and reality is interrogated. In the final season of Breaking Bad, Walt’s hidden identity is at last discovered by his brother-in-law, a DEA agent named Hank. Realizing that the inner is not the outer, Hank almost becomes speechless:
In the end, the allure of Breaking Bad lies in an uncanny warning. It reminds us that the trappings of our mundane existence—the detached suburban home, the office job, the family barbecue—by no means exhaust the depths of our internal lives. By “breaking bad,” Walt transgresses his social role and, in Kierkegaardian terms, move towards “the demonic.” Indeed, the demonic too is an ever present possibility for spiritual beings, who, contra Hegel, can never be identified with das Aussere willy-nilly.
Conceived as a prequel (and, in parts, a sequel) to Breaking Bad, Better Call Saul makes a similar point, but with a different protagonist and, in my view, a greater sense of pathos. One of the peripheral characters in Breaking Bad is a genial but corrupt lawyer called Saul Goodman (a name adapted, with a wink, from the blithe expression “It’s all good, man”). Saul becomes the central figure in Better Call Saul, which traces his descent into New Mexico’s criminal underworld. On the surface, then, the two series seem thematically identical, but this is misleading. Whereas Walter White appears ethical but actually isn’t, Saul is almost the opposite. Over the course of the show, we learn that Saul’s real name is Jimmy McGill. He grew up in suburban Chicago, the second son of blue-collar parents. Jimmy is a fundamentally likable person, but, overshadowed by his older brother Chuck and facing limited prospects, he scraps for money and slips into a pattern of low-level con artistry. After one prank goes horribly wrong, Jimmy tries to rehabilitate his life by moving to Albuquerque and taking a menial position in Chuck’s legal firm. Eventually he graduates from law school himself, but Chuck tries to block his path to a respectable legal career, doubting that Jimmy’s inner motives can ever be aligned with the outer requirements of the law:
Hence, slowly but surely, Jimmy evolves into Saul Goodman. Initially, he’s a cheap criminal defense attorney who represents petty thieves and prostitutes, but a series of misadventures and mistakes draw him into the high-stakes world of drug cartels. He is, in short, a tragic figure, whose greatest assets (quick wit, outgoing personality, willingness to compromise) also constitute his Achilles’ heel.
Now midway through its final season, Better Call Saul hardly restricts its thesis to a single character (as the above clip already indicates). For Gilligan and co-showrunner Peter Gould, the uneasy relationship between inner and outer is something with which all persons must struggle. Just about every character on the show exemplifies self-contradiction in one way or another, from Jimmy’s love interest Kim Wexler (another good person susceptible to temptation) to Chuck’s suave partner Howard Hamlin (a slick lawyer who may actually be genuine). Nothing is as it seems. It might’ve been interesting if Gilligan and Gould would have added an Abraham-like character into the mix—someone whose deep faith is erroneously perceived as evil. Nevertheless, I suspect that Kierkegaard would have appreciated Better Call Saul, precisely because it takes the inner/outer distinction with utmost seriousness. To be sure, since we know that Saul survives the events of Breaking Bad, albeit in grim despair, the two series together serve as a reminder that the spiritual potential of human beings runs, alas, in two directions.
Thanks. Haven't watched either series, myself. The interiority/exteriority question has so many facets. Isn't it true to say that for SK, there is a kind of "spurious" interiority as well, right? Variously identified or classified as reflection without action (in Present Age), double-mindedness (in Purity of Heart), and a possessive and acquisitive temporal love (Works of Love), and we do have, in SK, an affirmation in each case of a life of "exteriority" that is redeemed on the other side of the eternal's encounter with inwardness (action informed from character, the purity of heart that wills one thing in truth, the love formed through the command to love the neighbor, etc.). I just think it's so valuable to retrieve all of that from the devotional writings to counter any narrative about SK that it's all about inwardness, introspection, etc.