What man is this?

A discourse on that which troubles me most, and with each word I distort myself a little more — as when touching upon the loneliness that besets me: the loneliness of the human condition, born of the impossibility of seeing oneself whole; the loneliness reserved for men of love; the loneliness that man's own freedom imposes upon him; and, finally, the deepest loneliness of all, that of Angst.

Throughout this entire discourse, I see myself as a wretch stumbling through the world — almost like Marmeladov, from Crime and Punishment. When he lifts his eyes, in his simple and singular way, and finds himself before the Almighty, about to receive his judgment, he conveys his state to us, in his own manner:

[…] You are swine! You bear the image of the beast and its mark; but come here, you too! […] I welcome you, wise ones, I welcome you, sensible ones, for none of them considered themselves worthy of this. And He will open His arms to us and we shall throw ourselves to the ground… and we shall begin to weep […]

What a great man Marmeladov is! He surely shares in that nobility which is scarce and carefully bestowed upon a chosen few, such as Alexander, Caesar, and Napoleon. Firmly he resists and remains standing, without cowering or retreating before the enemy! I say more! Marmeladov must be that man for whom the higher men cry out, for their homeland's sake — the one Zarathustra announced to us: Der Übermensch! Ah, what a gracious gift has fallen upon the earth in finally coming to know its son. We stand like cowards, frozen in the middle, but Marmeladov has already crossed it. Will he cut the rope stretched taut? Shall we fall into the abyss?

What I particularly like about this excerpt is that I think — I think! — that I did a good job seamlessly integrating three concepts of man: the Nietzschean, the Christian, and the vulgar. They don't appear here on full display because it's only an excerpt, but it's possible to have a glimpse of them. Also, the irony with which my lovely Marmeladov appears makes me chuckle, because it's pathetic, ridiculous, and farcical. The following will shed more light on it, I hope...

[..] The second among the greatest of the lesser men — certainly, I am the first. And this is a confession I make: I make it not to men, nor to the Star — though it hears us —, nor to Death — though I shall soon lie upon her bosom —, nor to Venus — though I delight in her concupiscence —, but to the earth. Perhaps in this, at least, Nietzsche was right.