What makes From Hell so remarkable isn’t just that it’s about Jack the Ripper—it’s that it tackles history, mythology, and the human condition with a kind of depth that you rarely see in graphic novels.
Alan Moore has always been obsessed with big ideas, and From Hell is probably the best example of his ability to blend philosophical and historical inquiry with raw, brutal storytelling.
He doesn’t just tell you the story of a killer—he rips open the seams of Victorian London and lets you feel the filth, the fear, and the creeping sense that something bigger, darker, is at play.
Moore meticulously details everything—from the conspiracy theories surrounding Jack the Ripper to the exact weather of a particular day. He researched the hell out of this story, and it shows. The amount of care that went into recreating that world is staggering, and yet, the book never feels weighed down by it. Instead, it achieves something rare: it elevates the graphic novel medium to its highest potential. Moore’s weaving together of crime, history, and the occult is nothing short of masterful.
But it’s the layers that really make From Hell special. Sure, it’s a crime novel, a police procedural, an historical drama—but it’s also a philosophical exploration. Moore wrestles with the idea that “people don’t have ideas, ideas have people.” In From Hell, Jack the Ripper isn’t just a person—he’s a manifestation of something much larger. He’s a product of his time, of the industrial revolution, of a world where technology advanced faster than humanity could adapt. In a sense, the Ripper couldn’t have existed at any other time. It’s as if the environment of Victorian London created the perfect conditions for a monster to emerge. It wasn’t about the man—it was about the idea that possessed him.
Moore digs deep into the Jungian notion that these ideas have a life of their own, that they come alive in the right circumstances. In the Ripper’s case, it’s the detachment, the methodical, dehumanizing nature of the murders that mirrors the industrial age itself. Moore suggests that this isn’t just a story about one killer—it’s a story about the 20th century as a whole. The Ripper represents the dawn of something darker, a spirit that would possess men in the years to come, whether it’s in the form of dictators, mass murderers, or the bureaucratic machines that enabled them.
The brilliance of From Hell is that the killer himself seems to understand that he’s part of something bigger. He’s aware that his actions are part of a larger narrative, almost as if he’s transcended time, embodying a spirit of evil that will outlive him. And that’s where Moore takes things to another level—he’s asking if, just as men strive for enlightenment by embodying goodness, could they also reach some form of transcendence by embodying evil? It’s a chilling thought, and Moore explores it with surgical precision.
On top of all that, Eddie Campbell’s art perfectly complements the story. It’s grim, moody, and atmospheric—capturing the chaos of the time, the gritty underbelly of London, and the horror that lurks just beneath the surface. Every panel is loaded with detail, symbolism, and visual callbacks, making the experience richer every time you revisit it.
From Hell isn’t just a great graphic novel—it’s a masterpiece of the medium. It challenges what we think a graphic novel can be, pushing the boundaries of storytelling, art, and historical fiction. It’s the kind of work that sticks with you long after you’ve finished, lingering like a dark, unsettling dream that you can’t quite shake. If you want to see just how powerful a graphic novel can be, this is the one.