The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson

I was trying to read this book in preparation for a book group. I knew before I bought it, that it wasn't really my type of book, but I was trying to broaden my vistas a bit. For me, the venture wasn't a success. The book may be well written - I don't seem to be an especially good judge of that - but the topics just don't appeal to me. I should actually qualify that. The topic of getting ready for the Chicago World's Fair might have, by itself, appealed to me. The power struggles between all of the major personalities, the architects, the engineers, the workers, are interesting to me. But the tale of the murderer is abhorrent. It is supposed to be abhorrent. It is supposed to be the horror that draws you into the unfolding story. But I just can't stomach it. It is just too disgusting, too nervewracking.

I wonder sometimes what the appeal of horror stories are for people. I hate them. I suppose it is a bit like the voyeuristic inclination we all seem to have when we come upon a car accident. We know that it isn't a good thing, but we eagerly look for the cars involved and assess in our own minds what the damage must have been (or is). But reading about a real life serial killer seems to be far beyond the curiosity evoked by a car crash. It feels sick to me to even be interested in such awful things. I am glad that other people seem to feel it necessary to do research on the motives and operations of a serial killer, but I want to have nothing to do with it. If that means I am avoiding reality and leaving an important historical event out of my knowledge, well, so be it. I, at least, plan to leave this book to others.

Back to teen lit for me. I sometimes wonder if I will ever have mature tastes.