There's an odd undertone to this novel. The writing is generally superb, the characters beautifully realized, but...

Why is the main character, young George Amberson, so consistently repugnant (a dickhead would be an apt term) yet so well respected as he ruins the lives of those around him? Because he looks good? Because he has endless money? Because he has no ambition in life except to uphold the family name?

How is it that Tarkington's writing sparkles with wit and skewering social commentary, yet George not only has no sense of humor whatsoever, he can't even realize it in others. He takes all laughter by others as directed at him; his own laughter represents either scorn or bitterness.

Is it enough that he becomes reconciled to his own destructiveness in the last ten or so pages?

Still and all, it is a remarkably written work, perfectly paced, and Tarkington brims with horror of the filth that accompanies progress – the soot from coal burning, manufacturing and cars that drenches the town as it barrels into the 20th century. And young George's uncle, also George, seems to have absorbed all the humor missing in his younger namesake. Indeed, each of the Ambersons has a critical fault: elder George makes blundering financial decisions; young George's mother's unswerving love for her only son destroys her real happiness; the Major, the family patriarch, earned the money but never kept track of it; Aunt Fanny is loose in her mental stays.

The best thing to be said is that I'll probably go on to read more of Tarkington. I'd give the writing, plotting, pacing 5 stars; George...3 stars.