Of the big horror movies of the '70s, you have 'The Omen,' 'The

In the words of Chuck Palahniuk, writer of dark mirrors and unsettling truths, there is spoken an observation of art and existence itself: “Of the big horror movies of the '70s, you have The Omen, The Sentinel, Rosemary’s Baby, The Stepford Wives, Burnt Offerings—these are all romantic fatalist movies where there’s a sort of glimmer of hope… but darkness wins.” Here is no casual remark, but a meditation on a theme as old as myth: that human beings, however they strive, often find their light swallowed by forces beyond their control.

The ancients themselves knew this well. They wrote tragedies, not comedies, as their highest form of art. Aeschylus and Sophocles gave us tales where men and women fought against the decrees of the gods, only to be crushed in the end. Oedipus sought truth and found ruin; Prometheus gave fire to humanity and was bound to eternal torment. These were the first romantic fatalist stories—tales where courage and yearning spark briefly, but fate and darkness inevitably triumph.

The horror films of the 1970s carried this same ancient spirit into a modern age. Rosemary’s Baby offered a vision of a mother’s tender hope poisoned by an evil she could not fight. The Omen showed that even innocence could conceal the seed of destruction. The Stepford Wives revealed how love and domestic bliss could be hollowed out by submission and control. Each film allowed the audience a moment to believe in hope, only to reveal that the shadows were stronger. Thus, they were not mere entertainments, but modern myths reminding us of the fragility of light.

History offers its reflections as well. The fall of Rome, once the greatest empire, came despite the brilliance of its generals and philosophers. For centuries there was hope—reformers, leaders, dreamers—but in the end the weight of decay overcame them. Or consider the voyages of doomed explorers, who sailed with vision and courage only to be consumed by storm or ice. These, too, were stories where hope flickered, but darkness prevailed. Palahniuk’s words remind us that cinema, literature, and history are united in this theme.

The deeper meaning of his observation is that human beings are drawn to these tales not out of despair, but out of recognition. We know, even if we rarely admit it, that life is not always victorious, that darkness sometimes claims what is precious. Yet in watching or reading such stories, we are reminded of our own courage—to hope even when the end is inevitable, to fight even when defeat seems written. This paradox is the heart of the romantic fatalist spirit: that beauty exists in striving, even when the shadows close in.

The lesson is clear: do not expect that life will always reward you with triumph, nor that goodness will always conquer. But do not abandon hope, for it is in hope that the soul finds its nobility. Like the heroes of ancient tragedy and the characters of modern horror, we are called to struggle against odds, to shine while we can, even knowing that darkness waits. Victory is not always measured in outcome, but in the courage of the attempt.

Therefore, O listener, embrace this wisdom: live as one who fights with hope, but accepts that fate may not grant victory. Love deeply, strive boldly, dream passionately, even if the shadows rise. For in the end, the measure of a life is not whether darkness wins, but whether the heart refused to surrender its light while it burned. And in this, even in defeat, there is a triumph that no fate can erase.