My senior year in high school, AP US History fell during the same period as jazz band. And, Louis and Miles being nearer and dearer to my heart than any dead president, I opted for jazz.

While I’ve never regretted that choice, I’ve often regretted the deep hole in my knowledge that resulted. What was, for example Truman’s legacy? Or Harding’s? I have absolutely no idea.

Over the years, in fits of self-improvement, I’ve therefore picked up a slew of US history texts. I’ve tried to slog through Loewen and Zinn. I’ve even resorted to Davis’ much maligned Don’t Know Much About History. Because, as I’ve said, I don’t.

But, despite my best intentions, I’d never make it more than fifty pages through any of these tomes. I’d sit down to read and my eyelids would droop before I could even crack the volume open to the right page.

So, it was with some trepidation that I picked up Erik Larson’s The Devil in the White City, which retells the story of the 1893 World’s Fair by intertwining the perspectives of Daniel Burnham, the fair’s lead architect, and Henry Holmes, a serial killer who used the fair to lure in his victims.

As one reviewer commented, Larson seems a historan with a novelist’s soul. Several other reviewers called the book ‘engossing’; I couldn’t agree more, having, in less than three days, devoured three hundred and forty-some pages – more, perhaps, than I’ve read of all my prior history reading attempts combined.

So, if you like history books, I highly recommend The Devil in the White City. And if you don’t, I recommend it even more.