Of all the differences between that period and this one, what strikes you the most?

One of the things that I was really impressed by was this sense of civic goodwill that existed during that period. There was just this tremendous reservoir of pride and goodwill that’s largely gone now—people who were doing things, huge things, without the expectation that they’d get anything back except maybe glory. It’s a corollary to a decline in community. It’s interesting, and depressing, to see in this story the extent to which people gathered publicly. From the everyday events, like the newspaper office posting the telegrams on the window and the crowd gathered to see [if Chicago would host the World’s Fair] to the Fair itself. We forget that people really cared about their cities—we couldn’t do a World’s Fair now and have it work from a community standpoint. It’s like real Greco-Roman wrestling versus World Wrestling Federation—there’s just no comparison. It’s an artifact of a better time. How sad, that we’re so cynical that we can’t see the power of a gathering like that, or why Chicagoans would go to such great lengths to host it.

Both this book and your last one, Isaac’s Storm, contain a fair measure of tragedy. How does that affect you?

Personally? Glee. Seriously, it’s what we, as writers, do. It’s not to say I’m not moved—I am often very moved, and I take note, literally. I find something unexpectedly tragic, and it’s just great. For instance, in this book, when Root dies. Here’s this monumental venture, which isn’t going to work (or that no modern contractor would ever think possible) and it all depends on the partnership between Burnham and this design genius, Root. Well then Root dies—and I didn’t know this was going to happen ahead of time. I have to say, though, that I don’t think this book is a tragedy. It’s a heroic story—trimmed in darkness. There are awful things that happen, but in the end, I really think that the sheer inner moral integrity of Americans really wins out.

Has your attitude about writing about calamitous events changed in the last year and a half, as the world has changed?

For this book, no—except that I lost momentum for a few months after September 11, 2001. But now, as I’m looking around for the next project, absolutely. I see resonance in so many things—September 11th is just in everything. I’m still writing about historical events, but my choice of subject is informed in a totally different way.

Do you enjoy the research process?

The puzzle aspect of historical research is a whole lot of fun: finding interesting sources that you never knew existed and getting a picture of a long ago time that is compelling. The first step is just getting a sense in your own mind of what that time was like. That's what it's all about in any kind of writing: building, in your own mind first, a very rich sense of a time, and a place, and an event.

What draws you to writing about history?

I've always been interested in history. I majored in history in college, although I never intended to be a historian. I also found, afterwards when I was writing feature stories for the Wall Street Journal--and maybe it's the stories I picked or just the way that I think--there was always a historical component to my stories. In many cases, the historical component was one of the richest parts of the piece--the most interesting, the most compelling. And they were often funny. Any good piece of journalism, any good piece of writing, has a strong historical component. I'm convinced of that.

Every story has a context, and context is history--whether you're talking 5 years ago or 50 years ago or100 years ago. If you're writing a profile of a murderer and you're talking about that murderer's childhood, that's history. You can't escape it--and if you do, you blow the story. History is all seamless, it's all real, it's all relevant.

Jessica MacMurray (LNF/ UO 2001) is an editor at the University of Oregon Press.