We seem to be built to imagine that we live, if not at the end of the world, then at least at the end of an era. We love to talk about the death of this and the fall of that, and to boast that we are there to witness it. We do like to feel special. — from “Everything Must Go”
“This is the way the world ends/ This is the way the world ends/ This is the way the world ends/ Not with a bang but a whimper.” -- TS Eliot, "The Hollow Men"
"It's the End of the World As We Know It (and I Feel Fine.)" -- R.E.M.
I confess I’m a sucker for a book like this, which probably reveals something about me I’d be better off keeping to myself. Some of my favorite works of nonfiction have been Barbara Tuchman’s “A Distant Mirror,” “The Pursuit of the Millennium” by Norman Cohn, and Otto Friedrich’s “The End of the World: A History.”
(I’m certain there are a large number of works of fiction I’ve really liked that fall into this category — Cronin’s “The Passage” for one, and Brooks' “World War Z” — but I’ll come off to strangers as a more serious and thoughtful person if I stick to nonfiction.)
“Everything Must Go: The Stories We Tell About the End of the World” is exactly what the subtitle says: A broad examination of all the ways we (which is to say, humans) have envisioned the End of All Things. More than a mere survey, it examines what the various formulations say about the times in which they appeared and sometimes about the personalities of the people who shared their vision. (One late nineteenth century author wrote of a deadly plague and shared his anxiety "if it happened to white people.") It also demonstrates pretty conclusively how much easier it is to give voice to the existential dangers we perceive than to actually do something about them.
Unsurprisingly, Lynskey begins the book with the biblical books of Daniel and Revelation and their respective visions of the Apocalypse. Both works had an enormous impact on Western religion and culture. Thomas Jefferson may have dismissed Revelation as “merely the ravings of a maniac,” but the work exerted a powerful influence on history, art, culture, and even politics. As examples Lynskey mentions Hieronymous Bosch’s The Last Judgement, William Blake’s “Jerusalem,” Julia Ward Howe’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” various Schwarzenegger movies, and (terrifying to relate because his apocalyptic beliefs influenced his work) Reagan Secretary of the Interior James Watt’s remark, “I do not know how many future generations we can count on before the Lord returns.” (Similarly apocalyptic thinking was present in the Bush W administration and certainly in todays' religious-political landscape.)
“Everything Must Go” chronicles all the forms the Apocalypse might come according to writers, artists, and others. And so we read about medieval millennialists, 19th century Millerites, the Black Death, colliding worlds, flaming skies, mushroom clouds, Terminators, zombies, plagues, asteroids, the extinction of the dinosaurs, artificial intelligence, climate change, various survivalist groups among us today*, and a lot more. A tour down memory lane where the trail goes in and out of shadow. For readers of a certain age (mine, for instance) the book will trigger familiar old sounds and images: the strains of "Eve of Destruction" will spark memories of scurrying under school desks or rushing out to the hallway for nuclear bomb drills, and neighborhood men in t-shirts digging what they imagined would one day be a bomb shelter in their backyards. The figures Lynskey cites range from the obscure and forgotten to DH Lawrence, TS Eliot, HG Wells, Aldous Huxley, Mary Shelley, Jonathan Swift, Czech writer Karel Capek, JG Ballard, Albert Einstein, Edward Teller, even Thanos the Marvel movie villain. Each case reveals something important about the culture or the artist or both. One thinks of the many films — Godzilla, Them, etc. — that reflect anxiety about nuclear testing, or 2001's HAL or the Terminator movies expressing anxiety about our technologies. I was aware of these connections, of course; I spent many afternoons in the local movie house watching double features (look it up: it was a real thing) about atomic monsters, alien invasions, and spreading clouds of radiation. I didn’t know this factoid concerning the movie Soylent Green: “In the book, the miracle food soylent is, as its name suggests, a bland but nutritious vegan synthesis of soy beans and lentils. In the movie, as Heston famously screams at the end, ‘Soylent Green is people!’ “ What does this change say about America in the 1970s? one wonders.
(A few other tidbits I feel compelled to share: When people described his 1968 movie Night of the Living Dead -- a film clearly attuned to racism in America -- as a “zombie” film, filmmaker George Romero was surprised. “ ‘People . . . called them zombies,’ Romero recalled. ‘I said, “Wow, maybe they are.” To me, they were dead neighbors.’ " Elsewhere: “ Asked about the scientific accuracy of the 1998 film Armageddon, astronomer Phil Plait dryly remarked that the film “got some astronomy right. For example, there is an asteroid in the movie, and asteroids do indeed exist.”)
We read a good deal about War of the Worlds, When Worlds Collide, and , of course, but Lynskey introduces us to such individuals as Austrian playwright Jura Soyfer who in 1936 wrote a play called Der Weltuntergang ( The End of the World. Given what was going on in Europe at theme, one might guess at the tone of such a work. But in fact the play is satire. Soyfer was a 23 year old Jewish Marxist. In the play the Sun and planets decide that Earth needs to be cleansed so they send a comet to crash into it. One character, Professor Peep, tries to convince world leaders of the danger but they don’t listen When he warns Hitler that “The comet is going to destroy everybody,” Hitler responds by saying, “Destroying everybody is my business,” after which he goes into a rant about all deforces — Jews, Freemasons, Bolsheviks — who sent the comet to undermine the Reich. Word gets out, of course, leading entrepreneurial sorts to sell End-of-the-World bonds and comet insurance policies. Lynskey has fun describing how Soyfer “rips through every species of human idiocy.” Then he relates that Soyfer died in Buchenwald in 1939 at the age of 26. “For Jura Soyfer, like millions of others, Hitler was the end of the world.”
As he guides the reader through the centuries Lynskey shares fascinating details and observations. Among them: “Before the First World War, two-thirds of fictional end-of-the-world scenarios involved natural disasters and only one-third stemmed from human activity. After 1918, those proportions were reversed.” (No surprise, given how technology utterly transformed how arsenal were fought and how they were thought about by the public.)
The book is filled with small biographical portraits, idiosyncratic personalities, wry observations, and telling anecdotes. Unavoidably, “Everything Must Go” suffers from repetition. How could it not? The means of destruction may be different -- comet, virus, radiation, extraterrestrials -- but there are only so many ways to describe how the human population is wiped out. That aside, it’s a fascinating, fun, and insightful book. Visions about the End of the World have had a long history, Lynskey notes (the topic is “evergreen,” he writes). Looking back at all the prophesied Ends that never happened might arguably be reassuring.
But not always. What makes our time different, he says, is “that apocalyptic angst has become constant: all flow and no ebb.” Indeed. Because I am alive now and an inhabitant of our anxious, doomscrolling time, I can’t bring myself to be truly reassured by what didn’t take place in the past, though I often try. Everyday, every minute, we are flooded not only with stories of the myriad things threatening our survival but also maddening reports of powerful individuals who out of greed and self-interest discount the danger or even in some cases welcome the End (Lynskey talks about this too). I suppose reading a book or watching a film about the End might offer a harmless frisson of excitement, or serve as a means of keeping existential terror at arm's length. But I am reminded of that old joke about the difference between a pessimist and an optimist. A pessimist says, “Things can’t possibly get any worse.” The optimist says, “Oh yes they can.”
My thanks to Picador Publishers and Edelweis+ for providing a digital ARC in return for an honest review.
* Lynskey writes, “Survivalist narratives invite you to imagine yourself in that situation–would you prevail? Personally, I would consider it a miracle if I made it to the end of the week, but then the people most obsessed with survival are the people I’d least like to survive alongside.”