After finishing The Devil in the White City in AP Lang, I did what any rational human would do at 2:19 a.m.: armed with 72 peeled off lavender Post-it notes, I spent thirty-six minutes transforming my obsessive note-taking into a book review-slash-opinion piece for The Echo. In retrospect, I realize it was not, in fact, sleep deprivation and fatigue driving this somewhat miffed reflection, but the moral punch of Larson’s writing itself; his use of narrative empathy—the capacity of a story to make readers feel what a character feels—was, in this case, nearly too powerful.
Through the historical nonfiction novel The Devil in the White City, abbreviated as DIWC, author Erik Larson paints a bifurcation of narratives: the ambitious development of the 1893 World’s Columbia Exposition and the disconcerting murders committed by H. H. Holmes. In the midst of it all, Holmes is portrayed as something akin to a fictional character rather than an actual person, raising questions about how nonfictional storytelling can inadvertently cultivate empathy, or at the very least a closeness for understanding evil. By granting emotional proximity to a historical murderer and shaping the reader’s experience through suspenseful narration, Larson risks aestheticizing horror in ways that may deliver conflicting messages for readers, especially for events that remain historically unclear.
As Holmes’s intelligence and ambition are described with the same meticulous care afforded to the exposition’s architects and planners, the effectiveness of Larson’s narrative could be questioned. Historically speaking, Holmes is a chillingly inscrutable figure whose motives and inner life remain fragmentary, as mentioned in an article by Patrick Reardon. Yet, Larson, in his effort to render events vividly, spends considerable narrative energy on Holmes’s life and manipulations, potentially framing him not merely as a perpetrator of unspeakable crimes but as a character with depth, strategy, and psychological texture. This literary choice moves the reader closer to Holmes as a figure of fascination rather than a subject of moral condemnation.
Such narrative intimacy carries significant ethical implications. In literary theory, scholars like Suzanne Keen have discussed how narrative empathy can draw readers into the subjective world of characters, prompting identification even with morally reprehensible figures, according to the National Library of Medicine. Larson’s method of alternating chapters between Chicago’s panoply of achievements potentially eviscerates the weight of Holmes’s actions, inducing a rhythmic engagement that makes readers feel awe at human ingenuity and suspense. When authors tell true stories using the techniques of thrillers, less historically grounded readers may find themselves drawn to the mind of someone they should only condemn.
Since the structure of DIWC deliberately mirrors techniques found in gothic fiction and crime thrillers through extended buildup and tension building, reviewers from Literal have also noticed that Larson’s book reads as a thriller, flaunting chapters that encourage readers to anticipate horrors. This narrative suspense, while effective in terms of engagement, raises the possibility that readers may come to admire Holmes’s cunning through a fictional lens rather than the realistic perspective readers must take when studying Holmes and his crimes.
While the Exposition’s development is described in procedural and communal terms with builders, planners, and financiers working toward an unprecedented civic achievement, Holmes’s actions are depicted with visceral intensity. The descriptive richness attributed to his manipulative interactions create a sense of presence that may be perceived as ethically fraught: readers are invited not just to know about Holmes but to experience him. In contrast, the fair’s triumphs, though impressive, remain somewhat externalized.
This imbalance raises questions about how history is understood through literature. A book that straddles history and narrative art must be held accountable for where readers are morally positioned. Regardless, Larson’s craft is superb; his skill at sustaining tension and painting evocative moments of turn-of-the-century Chicago is indisputable. DIWC is a lovely, charming novel that has been excellently executed; yet, the very mechanisms that make his book gripping may be better suited for creative fiction rather than historical nonfiction. Larson’s techniques are perhaps too riveting and well-executed that consideration of positioning characters at a firm ethical distance may be beneficial.
While critics might argue that such narrative techniques make history accessible, accessibility need not come at the price of moral ambiguity. If nonfiction has the potential to cultivate empathy for perpetrators of evil through literary devices borrowed from fiction and plays the same role as in fiction, readers are forced to display a level of intellectual understanding to navigate a text that portrays historical events that are also not clear in itself. Larson’s writing is undeniably gripping; however, ethical responsibility of storytelling in historical nonfiction, especially in recounting real but historically hazy events, lies in preserving moral, unbiased clarity even amid narrative allure—a balance that is often quite difficult to achieve.
