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If some novelists have an golden period, during which they achieve the heights consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of four fat, satisfying novels, from his 1978 hit Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. These were rich, funny, warm novels, connecting protagonists he refers to as “misfits” to societal topics from feminism to reproductive rights.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been declining outcomes, save in page length. His last book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages of topics Irving had explored more skillfully in earlier books (inability to speak, restricted growth, trans issues), with a two-hundred-page script in the heart to pad it out – as if filler were necessary.

Therefore we approach a recent Irving with care but still a small spark of hope, which burns brighter when we learn that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages long – “goes back to the world of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s finest works, taking place largely in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Dr Larch and his protege Homer.

Queen Esther is a failure from a author who once gave such joy

In Cider House, Irving wrote about abortion and belonging with colour, comedy and an total compassion. And it was a significant work because it left behind the subjects that were turning into annoying habits in his works: wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, prostitution.

This book starts in the fictional community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome teenage orphan Esther from St Cloud's home. We are a a number of generations ahead of the action of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor stays familiar: even then using ether, adored by his caregivers, opening every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in this novel is confined to these early sections.

The family fret about bringing up Esther well: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a teenage Jewish girl understand her place?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will join Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant force whose “mission was to defend Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would later form the basis of the Israel's military.

Such are huge themes to address, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is hardly about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s additionally not about the main character. For causes that must relate to plot engineering, Esther becomes a substitute parent for another of the family's daughters, and gives birth to a son, James, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this book is the boy's story.

And here is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both common and particular. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful designation (the animal, remember the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a more mundane figure than the female lead hinted to be, and the supporting players, such as young people the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are several enjoyable episodes – Jimmy deflowering; a brawl where a handful of ruffians get battered with a crutch and a air pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a nuanced novelist, but that is is not the difficulty. He has always repeated his points, telegraphed story twists and allowed them to gather in the audience's imagination before bringing them to resolution in long, jarring, amusing sequences. For example, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to be lost: remember the tongue in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those absences echo through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central figure is deprived of an upper extremity – but we only discover thirty pages later the conclusion.

Esther reappears in the final part in the book, but merely with a final feeling of concluding. We never do find out the full account of her life in Palestine and Israel. Queen Esther is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The upside is that His Classic Novel – I reread it alongside this work – even now remains beautifully, 40 years on. So pick up the earlier work in its place: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but far as great.