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The Devil in the White City: Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair That Changed America Paperback – February 10, 2004
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“As absorbing a piece of popular history as one will ever hope to find.” —San Francisco Chronicle
Combining meticulous research with nail-biting storytelling, Erik Larson has crafted a narrative with all the wonder of newly discovered history and the thrills of the best fiction.
Two men, each handsome and unusually adept at his chosen work, embodied an element of the great dynamic that characterized America’s rush toward the twentieth century. The architect was Daniel Hudson Burnham, the fair’s brilliant director of works and the builder of many of the country’s most important structures, including the Flatiron Building in New York and Union Station in Washington, D.C. The murderer was Henry H. Holmes, a young doctor who, in a malign parody of the White City, built his “World’s Fair Hotel” just west of the fairgrounds—a torture palace complete with dissection table, gas chamber, and 3,000-degree crematorium.
Burnham overcame tremendous obstacles and tragedies as he organized the talents of Frederick Law Olmsted, Charles McKim, Louis Sullivan, and others to transform swampy Jackson Park into the White City, while Holmes used the attraction of the great fair and his own satanic charms to lure scores of young women to their deaths. What makes the story all the more chilling is that Holmes really lived, walking the grounds of that dream city by the lake.
The Devil in the White City draws the reader into the enchantment of the Guilded Age, made all the more appealing by a supporting cast of real-life characters, including Buffalo Bill, Theodore Dreiser, Susan B. Anthony, Thomas Edison, Archduke Francis Ferdinand, and others. Erik Larson’s gifts as a storyteller are magnificently displayed in this rich narrative of the master builder, the killer, and the great fair that obsessed them both.
- Print length447 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherKnopf Doubleday Publishing Group
- Publication dateFebruary 10, 2004
- Dimensions5.24 x 0.96 x 7.95 inches
- ISBN-100375725601
- ISBN-13978-0375725609
- Lexile measure1170L
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“A dynamic, enveloping book. . . . Relentlessly fuses history and entertainment to give this nonfiction book the dramatic effect of a novel. . . . It doesn’t hurt that this truth is stranger than fiction.” —The New York Times
"So good, you find yourself asking how you could not know this already." —Esquire
“Another successful exploration of American history. . . . Larson skillfully balances the grisly details with the far-reaching implications of the World’s Fair.” —USA Today
“As absorbing a piece of popular history as one will ever hope to find.” —San Francisco Chronicle
“Paints a dazzling picture of the Gilded Age and prefigure the American century to come.” —Entertainment Weekly
“A wonderfully unexpected book. . . Larson is a historian . . . with a novelist’s soul.” —Chicago Sun-Times
From the Inside Flap
From the Back Cover
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
How easy it was to disappear:
A thousand trains a day entered or left Chicago. Many of these trains brought single young women who had never even seen a city but now hoped to make one of the biggest and toughest their home. Jane Addams, the urban reformer who founded Chicago's Hull House, wrote, "Never before in civilization have such numbers of young girls been suddenly released from the protection of the home and permitted to walk unattended upon the city streets and to work under alien roofs." The women sought work as typewriters, stenographers, seamstresses, and weavers. The men who hired them were for the most part moral citizens intent on efficiency and profit. But not always. On March 30, 1890, an officer of the First National Bank placed a warning in the help-wanted section of the Chicago Tribune, to inform female stenographers of "our growing conviction that no thoroughly honorable business-man who is this side of dotage ever advertises for a lady stenographer who is a blonde, is good-looking, is quite alone in the city, or will transmit her photograph. All such advertisements upon their face bear the marks of vulgarity, nor do we regard it safe for any lady to answer such unseemly utterances."
The women walked to work on streets that angled past bars, gambling houses, and bordellos. Vice thrived, with official indulgence. "The parlors and bedrooms in which honest folk lived were (as now) rather dull places," wrote Ben Hecht, late in his life, trying to explain this persistent trait of old Chicago. "It was pleasant, in a way, to know that outside their windows, the devil was still capering in a flare of brimstone." In an analogy that would prove all too apt, Max Weber likened the city to "a human being with his skin removed."
Anonymous death came early and often. Each of the thousand trains that entered and left the city did so at grade level. You could step from a curb and be killed by the Chicago Limited. Every day on average two people were destroyed at the city's rail crossings. Their injuries were grotesque. Pedestrians retrieved severed heads. There were other hazards. Streetcars fell from drawbridges. Horses bolted and dragged carriages into crowds. Fires took a dozen lives a day. In describing the fire dead, the term the newspapers most liked to use was "roasted." There was diphtheria, typhus, cholera, influenza. And there was murder. In the time of the fair the rate at which men and women killed each other rose sharply throughout the nation but especially in Chicago, where police found themselves without the manpower or expertise to manage the volume. In the first six months of 1892 the city experienced nearly eight hundred homicides. Four a day. Most were prosaic, arising from robbery, argument, or sexual jealousy. Men shot women, women shot men, and children shot each other by accident. But all this could be understood. Nothing like the Whitechapel killings had occurred. Jack the Ripper's five-murder spree in 1888 had defied explanation and captivated readers throughout America, who believed such a thing could not happen in their own hometowns.
But things were changing. Everywhere one looked the boundary between the moral and the wicked seemed to be degrading. Elizabeth Cady Stanton argued in favor of divorce. Clarence Darrow advocated free love. A young woman named Borden killed her parents.
And in Chicago a young handsome doctor stepped from a train, his surgical valise in hand. He entered a world of clamor, smoke, and steam, refulgent with the scents of murdered cattle and pigs. He found it to his liking.
The letters came later, from the Cigrands, Williamses, Smythes, and untold others, addressed to that strange gloomy castle at Sixty-third and Wallace, pleading for the whereabouts of daughters and daughters' children.
It was so easy to disappear, so easy to deny knowledge, so very easy in the smoke and din to mask that something dark had taken root.
This was Chicago, on the eve of the greatest fair in history.
Product details
- Publisher : Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group (February 10, 2004)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 447 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0375725601
- ISBN-13 : 978-0375725609
- Lexile measure : 1170L
- Item Weight : 15.2 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.24 x 0.96 x 7.95 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #583 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- Customer Reviews:
About the author

Erik Larson is the author of five national bestsellers: Dead Wake, In the Garden of Beasts, Thunderstruck, The Devil in the White City, and Isaac’s Storm, which have collectively sold more than nine million copies. His books have been published in nearly twenty countries.
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“Make no little plans; they have no magic to stir men’s blood” –Daniel Burnham
Erik Larson opens his book with these two quotes that function as a preview—and microcosm—to the essence of the two minds at the heart of his Devil in the White City. More than that, both men operated within the same city that spurred their minds to blossom in all their respective depravity and grandeur: Chicago. And more specifically, the author examines the single event that acted as the crucible for revealing both the best and worst that these men could conjure—that event being The Chicago World’s Fair of 1893—an event that would serve as a symbol to the spectrum of the human spirit in all its glory and monstrosity upon the advent of the twentieth century.
Chicago of 1893 was a burgeoning American city determined to demonstrate itself against its metropolitan rivals to the East. And with the national decision to commemorate Columbus’ 400th anniversary—coupled by the renowned debut of Eiffel’s Tower at the recent Paris Exposition of 1889—America needed to utilize the upcoming Chicago World’s Fair as a monument and announcement to American’s unparalleled capacity for achievement and innovation.
Leading this endeavor would be Daniel Burnham—the architect responsible for overseeing its exhibits, maintaining production, and selecting the fellow men responsible for elevating the Fair into a phenomenon surpassing all expectations. After the death of Burnham’s professional partner, celebrated architect John Root, almost the entire burden of the assignment fell upon his shoulders. a task with the potential to cripple most men faced with the challenge, but one in which Burnham would work tirelessly to succeed—despite certain failures and shortcomings often out of his control—to exemplify the power of a determined mind coupled with an unceasing work ethic.
These obstacles of Burnham’s contention would often arrive in the form of inclement weather, bureaucratic battles, and internal squabbles with fellow department heads. Nonetheless, despite numerous delays and last-minute fixes, the Fair was a triumphant success. One that would leave behind such marvels as The Ferris Wheel, Tesla’s alternating electrical current, gum, shredded wheat, spray painting, the device that creates plates for printing Braille…the list goes on ad nauseam. But besides these tangible heirlooms still affecting present American society, the ambition and awe of by the Fair itself would prove to be perhaps its most profound legacy.
As one example, Larson relays an anecdote concerning one of the countless construction workers hired to help the Fair reach its nearly impossible deadline. This construction worker being an otherwise anonymous employee by the name of Elias Disney, who would recount stories of the overwhelming awe instilled by the spectacle of The White City upon the attendees to his young son Walt, which, Larson implies, would later be imitated in his designs of Disneyland.
Interspersed between these anecdotes of American achievement at its zenith, Larson weaves a parallel narrative focused upon the exploits of H.H. Holmes—America’s first true serial killer. Operating his nearby World’s Fair Hotel—which would later be infamously remembered as The Murder Castle—Holmes would seize upon the opportunity afforded by the Fair in the most monstrous manner imaginable: as a vehicle for his plans of murder and theft to be unleashed.
In stark juxtaposition to Burnham’s continued efforts to utilize his resources for the benefit of society, Holmes embodied the nightmare version of the American self-made man. Calculated, cold, and patient, Holmes worked with methodical ingenuity in his construction of the Murder Castle: a three-story hotel assembled from Holmes’ designs that would provide the perfect tenement to his abominable ambitions.
From assigning certain workers to only certain sections (limiting their knowledge to corroborate with one another), to his ability to charm creditors for money that would never be repaid, to his own manufactured public image of a well-to-do businessman that would attract his varied women of interest, Holmes exploited every conceivable aspect of the trusting American public in order to appease the commanding vices surging within him.
These vices would be numerous and varied. From insurance fraud, to theft, to murder, to kidnapping, Holmes existed as a personification of evil. At every turn—with Burnham working relentlessly mere miles away to produce a vision of America that would change and inspire the world—Holmes indulged in every act of depravity that he could conceive. As though possessed (a claim that Holmes would literally attest to after his arrest), H.H. truly lived up to his opening quote of being incapable of quelling his deviant impulses. Whether it was his numerous wives—all naïve women who sought out Chicago in hope of a new life within the burgeoning metropolis—or random hotel guests, or eventually the children of his accomplice…Holmes exhibited no mercy in satisfying the limitless depths of his immorality.
And, as Larson reminds the reader in the introduction, the book is not a work of fiction. Nonetheless, the author weaves this sprawling narrative with compelling and compulsive chapters—each one short and episodic so that the reader falls under the trance of believing that the work could be a fictional, historical thriller. More importantly and impressively, these chapters are written with such specificity and atmosphere as to completely transport the reader into the setting. Larson favors stark, smooth prose that paints a vivid picture of the subject and allows the reader to experience the range of emotions occurring within this revolutionary event: from the majesty of the Court of Honor to Annie Williams’ utter panic after Holmes locks her within a vault, turns on the valve for poisonous gas to be released, and listens to her final screams before death just outside the door.
The last third of the novel—with the Fair inexorably approaching its bleak end and the determined detective named Frank Geyer on Holmes’ elusive trail—Larson escalates the suspense to especially memorable and powerful effect. After Holmes’ many, many creditors finally coalesced to take him down, H.H. escaped from Chicago.
However, the hotelier did not flee alone; instead, he absconded with three children belonging to his former assistant: the drunken henchman Benjamin Pitezel. As Geyer tracks Holmes across the northern states, locates him in Toronto, and discovers the gruesome remains of the children murdered and mutilated by Holmes, the storytelling morphs into a riveting chase across America and Canada to finally deliver retribution upon the killer. Geyer’s descent into the cellar of the climactic Toronto home reads with as much suffocating suspense and dread as any horror novel, and the brutal aftermath—wherein the mother must identify her horribly mutilated child at the coroner’s office—delivers the unbearable emotions of devastation experienced by the victim that are often glossed over by similar works in the genre.
By the finale, wherein Larson interweaves the rapid destruction of the Fair following the assassination of Chicago’s mayor with Holmes’ arrest and execution, the author provides perspective on how the immense scope of these events affected the American public. Burnham with the World’s Fair—a prodigious monument to the power of accomplishment in American creativity, innovation, and inspiration; then with Holmes and the Murder Castle—a material edifice containing the darkest conceptions of a man’s mind and a literal house of horrors that contributed nothing but carnage and chaos.
In this striking juxtaposition, Larson underscores how these two men—existing under the same time, place, and tested by the same opportunity—opted to forge the material legacy of their lives. And in demonstrating these expanded boundaries of American accomplishment and depravity upon the advent of the twentieth century, Larson impresses a larger understanding of the scope of human nature; and more importantly, the significance of how each man chooses to actualize his own nature, despite his limited time, and how profoundly the consequences of these actions continue to echo beyond the ephemeral present.
[...]
Today, fifty pages of "Notes and Sources" later, it's difficult to imagine Mr. Larson's accomplishment, sifting trhough literally tons of evidence to write a readable account of the conversion of Jackson Park to the magnificence of "The White City." An annointed master of such personified history, Mr. Larson's prose is full and robust, enhanced with delightful metaphor, e.g., "his courtship of the finest wines and food;" "the heat rose with the intensity of a child's fever;" "sentences wandered through the report like morning glory through the picket of a fence."
But, wait, the World's Columbian Exposition with all its complexities, covers only half the story of "The Devil in the White City." A second tale, while in some sense less ambitious than the construction of the Exposition grounds, is in human terms almost as incalculable as the masterful achievement of world class architects and builders, perhaps no less astounding - the life and career of a master criminal, a serial killer who worked during the time of the building of the exposition and lived only a few blocks away.
Side by side with the exquisitely detailed account of mounting the Columbian Exposition is the story of a serial killer known by a variety of assumed names, perhaps the most prominent of which was Dr. Arthur H. Holmes. Holmes, the scam alias of a sometimes physician, sometiems pharmacist and landlord migrated to Chicago and settled in the outskirts of the vast property knows as Jackson Park, the tract that was to become "The White City."
There, this master of diabolical practice plied his trade upon the large numbers of young women who came to Chicago, some for the Exposition, others who came because Chicago offered jobs. No one was ever to know how many actually fell to this grim reaper's axe, perhaps two hundred of more. One reason that this macabre, twinned plot could happen is that lost people filled so many reports that the police were overwhelmed. It was literally impossible to record the sheer volume let along assure them safety. The conditions worked exceedingly well for the man who had established a variety of aliases and residences.
In addition to the anonymity provided by hordes of people moving to urban areas in greater numbers than ever before, Holmes was singularly adept at worming his way into the graces of young single women, and occasionally a wife for good measure -- the measure being disguise from his deadly exracurricular activities or an ample estate in land or gold. Thus it was that rather than a gusher, his evil deeds leaked out a drop at a time, the details of his criminal acts unquestiond by more than a single family or friend, all of whom were deflected by the charming practiced liar.
Larson's remarkable book seems to account for every nail driven in the Exposition construction (e.g., for one building alone, a count is given for 287,000 nails) to visiting every pane of glass and, further, seems able to locate every workman and crewman laboring in and on the dozens of buildings being created. In this author's hands, the reader feels as well as knows the desperation fof Burnham, the Chief Architect, and Fredrick Olmstead, the famed landscape architect, who worked feverishly against time to be ready for opening day.
One is almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of detail included in this work. All the while one is savoring the monumentality of the task, the reader cannot help but pause from time to time to wonder how on earth the author was able to cover so much in the pages of a single book. In addition to the spectacular buildings, structures larger than anyone had ever attempted, there were the "people" concerns from around the world. Belly dancers from Egypt, a band of pygmies from Africa, American Wild West Shows, and circus animals, all to be housed on the grounds.
While Burnham and his colleagues worked frantically to complete an "Eighth Wonder of the World," Holmes had been no less busy building a factory about his incredible "industry of death." He owned a square block which he filled with stores, apartments, and simple rooms for rent. In one of those rooms, he build a vault, fully insulated to muffle any shouts or pounding from his victims. It was also equipped with a special valve to inject gas into the chamber. At least one bedroom in his rental apartments was equipped with gas jets to render a sleeping tenant unconscious, a process he could finish off with a choloroformed cloth over the mouth or suffocating pillow. In the basement a large room contained a brick enclosure in the floor where gas heat could be raised to a thousand degrees to disintegrate human fflesh. His crematorium was also equipped with special vents and chemicals to carry away any telltales owdors.
Erick Larson has written a wonderful book, but perhaps it has gone too far. The conflicting stories of good and evil seem not to leave enough room for either. Leaning perhaps too heavily upon the history, it seems to me we've lost some of the necessary horror of Holmes's victims, even perhaps the slavering drool of the psychopath in the hunt and the kill. In that sense, too, I'd like to have seen more of the pleasure in the architects' triumphs and the expressions of amazement from the visitors to the white city. More emotionality might have been offered, for instance, about the colossal triumph of young George Ferris's' amazing wheel, taller than any skyscraper and surely far greater than the Eiffel Tower which it was meant to show up.
And lurking in background a brilliant, charming, hideously evil serial killer.
I enjoy Larson’s style of making non fiction read like a novel.






















