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One half of this book recounts the trials and triumphs accompanying the construction of the 1893 Chicago World’s Fair. The personalities of its architects and builders come alive, as does the broader scope of the endeavor as an international symbol of America’s progress and an exhibition of some of the greatest achievements of engineering and industry ever seen. The other half of the book, woven through this narrative, details the life of Herman Webster Mudgett, alias Dr. H. H. Holmes, the psychopath who stalked the exhibition and one of the first American serial killers recorded.
Larson’s idea here, as expressed at beginning and end, was to juxtapose the vaulting human pride in great achievement with the depths of extreme depravity. His intent was to “say something profound about human nature,” which is great, but would have been a lot better if he’d, you know, said what that something was. The contrast of the two stories does have an effective narrative oomph, but the whole thing never quite gels. I don’t actually think this is entirely Larson’s fault, though. The sections on the fair are truly fantastic, top-notch work, written in that personal but informative way of really solidly researched history. The Holmes sections, for various reasons, rely much more heavily on speculation and extrapolation. It’s hard to dissect the activities of a killer active over a century ago, before modern law enforcement or forensic tools, to say nothing of the problems inherent to writing a killer’s biography. There are, after all, only two people present at the moments of greatest narrative tension; one of them will not survive, and the other is the original unreliable narrator. This leaves the writer with the delicate work of reconstructing events and writing them with the correct truthful distance, but the appropriate punch. Larson fumbles here on multiple counts, though I really can’t fault him for it -- he simultaneously speculates where he shouldn't, going so far as to narrate multiple murder scenes, and then he bows to the lack of information and says practically nothing about what Holmes actually did at the fair itself. (I suggest, incidentally, as an exemplar of how to navigate these problems very, very well, John Douglas’s Anyone You Want Me To Be).
Still, this is worth reading for the exhibition history alone. This was, after all, the event that brought the world the zipper, the first automated kitchen, Juicy Fruit gum, Shredded Wheat, and marvels of beauty and engineering never dreamed of, like the Farris Wheel. And it is also worth reading for Holmes, and for the great conceit the book envisions but never quite reaches.
Larson’s idea here, as expressed at beginning and end, was to juxtapose the vaulting human pride in great achievement with the depths of extreme depravity. His intent was to “say something profound about human nature,” which is great, but would have been a lot better if he’d, you know, said what that something was. The contrast of the two stories does have an effective narrative oomph, but the whole thing never quite gels. I don’t actually think this is entirely Larson’s fault, though. The sections on the fair are truly fantastic, top-notch work, written in that personal but informative way of really solidly researched history. The Holmes sections, for various reasons, rely much more heavily on speculation and extrapolation. It’s hard to dissect the activities of a killer active over a century ago, before modern law enforcement or forensic tools, to say nothing of the problems inherent to writing a killer’s biography. There are, after all, only two people present at the moments of greatest narrative tension; one of them will not survive, and the other is the original unreliable narrator. This leaves the writer with the delicate work of reconstructing events and writing them with the correct truthful distance, but the appropriate punch. Larson fumbles here on multiple counts, though I really can’t fault him for it -- he simultaneously speculates where he shouldn't, going so far as to narrate multiple murder scenes, and then he bows to the lack of information and says practically nothing about what Holmes actually did at the fair itself. (I suggest, incidentally, as an exemplar of how to navigate these problems very, very well, John Douglas’s Anyone You Want Me To Be).
Still, this is worth reading for the exhibition history alone. This was, after all, the event that brought the world the zipper, the first automated kitchen, Juicy Fruit gum, Shredded Wheat, and marvels of beauty and engineering never dreamed of, like the Farris Wheel. And it is also worth reading for Holmes, and for the great conceit the book envisions but never quite reaches.
