The Magnificent Ambersons by Booth Tarkington won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction in 1919. The prize is awarded to works of “distinguished fiction by an American author, preferably dealing with American life.” This is one of (at the time of this writing) 10 Pulitzer-winning books that are no longer under copyright and are available free via Project Gutenberg.
The writing successfully evokes time, place, and character, and I hated every minute of reading it because the main character is a loathsome, irredeemable douchebag. Toward the end, his uncle tells him “there are times when I thought you ought to be hanged—but I’ve always been fond of you.” Leave out the part about the fondness and I’d agree.
It’s predicted at the beginning that because wealthy socialite Isabel Amberson married a man she didn’t love, she would pour all her attention into her children and spoil them rotten. This was indeed the case, except she had only one child, so the rot didn’t get divided among siblings and all fell into Georgie. Because no one ever told him no and there was never a consequence for his rotten behavior, he reached adulthood believing he was the center of the universe and everything surrounding him existed only in relation to him. His life plan is to be a “gentleman”—that is, live it up on his grandfather’s money.
He takes a fancy to Lucy, the daughter of (unbeknownst to Georgie at the time) the man his mother was in love with but dumped because he was too wild at the time. Lucy—a queen we stan—refuses to marry Georgie because, although she is also fond of him, he’s an irresponsible flake with a child’s view of how the world works. Unlike Isabel, however, Lucy does not marry a stable alternative because she’s already managing the household and social affairs of her rich widower daddy and is under no pressure to marry and breed.
Georgie’s father dies and, by his own admission, he barely notices the difference because he wasn’t a daddy’s boy. That is, until he becomes aware his mother’s “friend” Eugene (Lucy’s father) might have designs on Isabel, who is Georgie’s personal property. At that point, daddy—a nonentity up to this point—becomes a SAINT. How dare Isabel, a year after her husband’s death, begin to break up her full mourning garb with a bit of white around her cuffs? It must be the influence of That Man. And people are GOSSIPING, besmirching the family name that Georgie hasn’t given a damn about for one second during his own shenanigans but suddenly besmirching is unable to be borne!
He forbids his mother to have any contact with That Man ever again, and to ensure this severance, he whisks Isabel off to Europe. Because Isabel is spineless, she caters to the manchild’s whims. While abroad, Isabel withers away, along with her hopes and dreams of happiness. Georgie brings her home to die. For the first time in his life, something traumatizes him, and there is the illusion of a revelation. He has a meltdown with his aunt. “I did the right thing! If it wasn’t the right thing, an adult should have stopped me because I was a child!” (He has graduated from university. He is a child only in his emotional development and behavior. Lucy, same age, is unquestionably an adult, but not wee smol bean Georgie.) He’s upset, suggesting he knows he was wrong, but he’s still offloading the responsibility to anyone but himself.
In order for there to be growth, there must be change. When Georgie’s uncle is settling Isabel’s affairs (because Georgie is incapable of performing any adult task), he can’t locate a deed for Isabel’s house, which was a gift from her father. Uncle says don’t worry, he’ll just get Granddad to deed it directly to Georgie. Georgie, who claims to be a child who shouldn’t be allowed to make decisions, says, “No! Leave him alone! Everything will be fine!”
Well, Granddad dies a year after Isabel, without having deeded that house to anyone. It is therefore among Granddad’s assets, which have to be sold to pay his debts. All the signs that the family fortune was not in the best health were leading to the “You get NOTHING!” moment.
Georgie, in the first unselfish move he has made in his entire life, decides he can’t allow his spinster aunt to be turned out on the street. She found an apartment for them, but he won’t be able to pay the bills with the entry-level office job one of Granddad’s pals charitably offered this unskilled loser. Because he’s always been an ass, he has no friends who might hook him up with something better. He’s heard dangerous jobs pay more, so he gets a job transporting nitroglycerine. People gossiping (le gasp!) say that kind of work has an average life expectancy of 4 years, but it’s not an earth-shattering kaboom that takes Georgie down but an automobile, which runs him down and breaks both his legs. He’s not going back to kaboom work in that condition, obviously. (ETA: The first 2 books in this challenge have included catastrophic encounters with cars. Coincidence, or a finger on the pulse of a great fear of the era?)
Don’t dwell on his misfortune for too long, though, because Isabel’s ghost told Eugene to “be kind” to the spoiled brat who destroyed their happiness, so Georgie will be taken care of, per usual. The end.
Structurally, the “hero’s” downfall came where it should. The problem is, when you spend 80% of a book making me hate the main character, any downfall other than suffering as he has made everyone else suffer, followed by an epically miserable death, cannot possibly satisfy me. You’re not going to redeem this little shit in the last 10% of the story, and I’m offended by the attempt.
There were interesting period details, such as fashion, home decor, and exterior paint colors trending dark to minimize the aesthetic damage of coal-fueled industrialization coating everything with soot. Less-keen period details include casual racism.
If you enjoy reality TV about rich people behaving badly, you might have fun with this. If you think toxic boy moms, rich people behaving badly, and feminist icons like Lucy are recent inventions, this century-old book might be educational. I would not recommend this book to anyone who doesn’t fall into those groups and expect to be well regarded after.
Do better, Pulitzer 1921. (There was no prize awarded in 1920.) We shall meet in March.
If you want to play along, the next book will be The Age of Innocence by Edith Wharton, available here.
Oh damn, that’s more Golden Age despicable rich assholes, isn’t it? Sigh. I’m already rooting for the Great Depression.