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If certain novelists experience an imperial period, where they achieve the heights repeatedly, then U.S. author John Irving’s ran through a sequence of several fat, gratifying works, from his late-seventies breakthrough His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Those were rich, humorous, compassionate novels, connecting protagonists he calls “outliers” to cultural themes from feminism to termination.

After Owen Meany, it’s been declining returns, aside from in word count. His most recent book, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages of themes Irving had examined better in prior books (mutism, dwarfism, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the center to fill it out – as if filler were required.

Therefore we come to a new Irving with reservation but still a faint spark of optimism, which burns hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a mere 432 pages long – “revisits the world of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 novel is among Irving’s top-tier novels, set largely in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his protege Wells.

The book is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored termination and identity with vibrancy, wit and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a significant work because it left behind the topics that were evolving into annoying tics in his works: grappling, bears, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel opens in the fictional community of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome young foundling Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of years prior to the events of His Earlier Novel, yet Wilbur Larch stays familiar: even then dependent on anesthetic, respected by his caregivers, starting every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in Queen Esther is confined to these early scenes.

The couple fret about parenting Esther well: she’s from a Jewish background, and “in what way could they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will enter Haganah, the pro-Zionist paramilitary organisation whose “mission was to safeguard Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would later become the foundation of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Those are enormous topics to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that the novel is not really about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s all the more disheartening that it’s likewise not focused on Esther. For causes that must connect to narrative construction, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for another of the family's offspring, and gives birth to a son, James, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this story is Jimmy’s story.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both common and particular. Jimmy goes to – naturally – Vienna; there’s mention of dodging the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a pet with a symbolic designation (the dog's name, remember the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, authors and penises (Irving’s recurring).

He is a less interesting character than Esther suggested to be, and the supporting players, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are several amusing set pieces – Jimmy deflowering; a brawl where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a support and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a delicate novelist, but that is is not the difficulty. He has repeatedly repeated his ideas, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to gather in the reader’s imagination before taking them to resolution in extended, shocking, amusing moments. For example, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to go missing: think of the oral part in The Garp Novel, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses reverberate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central figure loses an upper extremity – but we just find out thirty pages later the conclusion.

The protagonist returns late in the book, but just with a last-minute sense of wrapping things up. We do not discover the full account of her experiences in the region. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a author who in the past gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The upside is that Cider House – revisiting it together with this novel – still holds up wonderfully, after forty years. So pick up that in its place: it’s twice as long as this book, but a dozen times as good.