Why our obsession with apocalyptic stories persists

Discover why apocalyptic narratives captivate us, from biblical Revelation to modern disaster films, through Dorian Lynskey’s critical exploration in Everything Must Go.

Illustration by Shuo Shu

By Novanka Laras and Sarah Oktaviany

Everything Must Go: The Stories We Tell About the End of the World, by Dorian Lynskey

Buy on Amazon

"Catastrophe is our bedtime story," wrote Don DeLillo—a poetic notion that resonates profoundly in today’s world. From blockbuster disaster movies to news headlines, tales of apocalypse dominate popular culture and our collective consciousness. In Everything Must Go: The Stories We Tell About the End of the World, Dorian Lynskey delves into this enduring fascination, exploring how humanity’s preoccupation with Armageddon reflects its fears, hopes, and existential dilemmas.

Lynskey, who previously examined dystopian literature in The Ministry of Truth (2019), widens his lens in Everything Must Go. His latest work categorizes apocalyptic scenarios—from nuclear annihilation to artificial intelligence takeovers—while providing historical and cultural context for humanity’s fixation on the end of days.

Though focused on secular portrayals of the apocalypse, Lynskey begins with the Book of Revelation, the New Testament’s hallucinatory depiction of the end times. Written in the first century amid intense messianic fervor, Revelation’s vivid imagery—beasts, plagues, and cosmic upheaval—has profoundly influenced both religious and secular visions of the apocalypse.

What sets Revelation apart is its dual nature: an account of terror intertwined with the promise of salvation. The Second Coming offers hope amid destruction, a theme that Lynskey identifies in later secular apocalyptic narratives. As literary critic Frank Kermode noted in The Sense of an Ending (1967), people often yearn for an ending that grants meaning to their lives. This longing, Lynskey argues, underpins post-apocalyptic stories like the Mad Max franchise, which romanticize survivalism and depict destruction as a form of rebirth.

Lynskey explores the thrill of apocalypse stories, particularly their ability to mix fear with excitement. He highlights the genre of "impact fiction," which gained popularity in the 19th century as scientific discoveries about asteroids and cosmic debris inspired speculative tales of planetary destruction. Edgar Allan Poe’s 1839 story The Destruction of the World and H.G. Wells’s The War of the Worlds (1898) laid the groundwork for modern disaster narratives like Deep Impact and Armageddon (both released in 1998).

While Deep Impact aimed for scientific accuracy, Armageddon embraced bombastic spectacle—and earned far greater commercial success. This dichotomy illustrates the enduring appeal of apocalypse stories as both serious warnings and entertaining escapism.

The advent of nuclear weapons brought an unprecedented realism to apocalyptic narratives. The bombings of Hiroshima and Nagasaki made global annihilation a tangible threat, shifting disaster fiction from speculative fantasy to grim plausibility. Lynskey examines works like Nevil Shute’s On the Beach (1957), which imagines a cobalt-jacketed atomic bomb spreading lethal radiation across the Earth. While such "doomsday devices" never materialized, they amplified public fears and underscored the vulnerability of human civilization.

Lynskey’s analysis of nuclear-themed stories showcases how fiction can reflect and shape societal anxieties. The stark realism of these narratives contrasted sharply with earlier, more speculative tales, making the threat of apocalypse feel immediate and unavoidable.

Lynskey notes that apocalyptic angst has become a constant in contemporary culture, fueled by global crises like climate change, pandemics, and technological risks. However, he refrains from deeply analyzing these modern fears, instead focusing on historical trends and cultural precedents.

One of the book’s weaker sections addresses climate fiction—or "cli-fi"—a genre that has become mainstream in recent years. From political allegories to bestselling thrillers, climate disaster stories dominate the literary and cinematic landscape. Lynskey raises compelling questions about their impact: Do these narratives amplify urgency through repetition, or do they become so familiar that they lose their potency?

Lynskey’s archival approach avoids speculation about the future, emphasizing instead humanity’s historical tendency to predict—and survive—the apocalypse. This cautious stance reflects the paradox of apocalyptic narratives: they captivate us precisely because they remain unfulfilled. As Lynskey observes, “The maddening thing about the apocalypse is that it never actually happens—until it does.”

Despite this uncertainty, apocalyptic stories continue to resonate. They offer a framework for understanding our fears and aspirations, allowing us to grapple with existential questions in a safe, imaginative space.

At their core, apocalyptic narratives reflect humanity’s search for meaning. Whether framed as divine judgment, cosmic accident, or human folly, these stories force us to confront the fragility of life and the resilience of the human spirit. Lynskey’s exploration of this theme highlights the dual nature of apocalypse tales: they are both cautionary and cathartic, blending terror with a faint hope for renewal.

In Everything Must Go, Lynskey provides a comprehensive and engaging account of humanity’s fascination with the end of the world. By tracing the evolution of apocalyptic thought—from biblical Revelation to Hollywood blockbusters—he sheds light on the enduring appeal of these narratives.

While the book occasionally falls short in addressing contemporary anxieties, it excels in connecting past and present, showing how humanity’s apocalyptic imagination reflects its deepest fears and desires. As we navigate an increasingly uncertain world, Lynskey’s work reminds us that the stories we tell about the end often reveal more about the present than the future.

Dorian Lynskey’s Everything Must Go offers a thought-provoking journey through humanity’s obsession with the end of the world. From ancient scriptures to modern cinema, apocalyptic narratives have shaped how we perceive ourselves and our place in the universe.

These stories endure not because they predict the future, but because they help us make sense of the present. By examining our fears, hopes, and contradictions, they challenge us to confront the fragility of existence—and to find meaning in the face of uncertainty.

In the end, the apocalypse may never arrive. But our fascination with it will remain, a testament to the complexity and creativity of the human mind.