So, here’s the thing—I picked up Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City for what you might call “educational reasons.” My local Osher group is doing a Chicago day trip soon, and apparently, this book is the unofficial theme of the outing. You know, so we can all nod wisely when someone mentions Daniel Burnham or the Ferris Wheel. I figured I should at least pretend to be cultured before hopping on the bus, so I grabbed the book. What I didn’t expect was to get completely sucked into this weird, haunting, and oddly glamorous blend of civic pride and serial murder. Chicago in 1893? Turns out it was wild.
I’ll admit it—I knew next to nothing about the 1893 World’s Fair before reading this. Like, I vaguely knew it was a big deal, that there was a giant wheel involved, and that everyone wore hats. But Larson brings it all to life with this meticulous level of detail that makes you feel the dust, the sweat, and the sheer stress of trying to pull off something this ambitious. The fair was meant to outshine Paris (which had just shown off the Eiffel Tower so the goal was to ‘out-Eiffel, Eiffel’), and Chicago basically said, “Hold my beer.” Reading about the architects racing against time to build the so-called White City—a temporary city made of plaster that had to look like marble—was almost as tense as watching someone defuse a bomb. Every gust of wind, every budget cut, every delay was a mini heart attack.
And then, amid all the grandeur and civic optimism, there’s him—H.H. Holmes. America’s first serial killer, operating practically in the shadow of the fairgrounds. Holmes is one of those people who would have gotten a million followers on LinkedIn for being “charismatic and entrepreneurial,” except, you know, his business model involved murder. Larson alternates between Burnham’s monumental task of building the fair and Holmes’s creepy exploits, and the juxtaposition is what makes this book so fascinating—and chilling. I’d be deep in a chapter about the construction of the Court of Honor and suddenly get whiplash when the narrative cuts to Holmes buying vats of acid. It’s like watching Grand Designs and Mindhunter spliced together.
What really struck me is how much I ended up learning—not just about the fair or Holmes, but about that entire era. The fair introduced so many things we now take for granted: electric lights, the first Ferris wheel, even Cracker Jacks. (I actually put down the book to Google whether that was true. It is.) Larson paints this era of massive ambition where America was trying to prove itself on the global stage, but underneath the optimism, you could feel the cracks—poverty, corruption, inequality, and, well, serial killers in rented basements.
I have to give Larson credit: he writes nonfiction that reads like a novel. The pacing, the atmosphere, the characters—they all feel alive. Even though I knew the fair would eventually open and Holmes would eventually be caught, I still found myself muttering, “Oh no, don’t go into the vault,” like I was watching a horror movie. And the writing? Smooth, occasionally wry, and full of those little historical nuggets that make you feel smarter without it turning into a textbook lecture.
Now that I’ve finished it, I’m honestly more excited for the Chicago trip. I want to stand on the grounds where all this happened and try to imagine it: the gleaming pavilions, the crowds in their Sunday best, the smell of popcorn and horses. Maybe we’ll even get to see the spot where Holmes’s “Murder Castle” once stood—though I’ll probably do that part from a safe distance.
Anyway, if you’re into history that feels alive—or you just like stories about visionaries and villains crossing paths—The Devil in the White City is worth your time. It’s dark, yes, but it’s also strangely inspiring. You come away thinking about what humans are capable of—both the dazzling and the deranged.
Alright, I’m off to polish my trivia skills for the Osher bus ride. If someone quizzes me on the Ferris Wheel’s diameter, I’m ready.