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If a few authors enjoy an peak era, where they achieve the pinnacle repeatedly, then American novelist John Irving’s lasted through a series of several fat, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies breakthrough The World According to Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were rich, humorous, warm books, linking protagonists he calls “misfits” to social issues from women's rights to termination.

After Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing results, aside from in word count. His most recent book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages in length of topics Irving had examined more effectively in earlier books (mutism, dwarfism, transgenderism), with a lengthy screenplay in the center to fill it out – as if filler were needed.

Thus we approach a recent Irving with care but still a tiny flame of optimism, which shines hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages – “revisits the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is one of Irving’s very best books, taking place largely in an orphanage in the town of St Cloud’s, operated by Wilbur Larch and his assistant Homer.

This novel is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving discussed termination and acceptance with vibrancy, comedy and an all-encompassing empathy. And it was a significant book because it abandoned the themes that were turning into tiresome habits in his works: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, the city of Vienna, prostitution.

This book starts in the imaginary village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Thomas and Constance Winslow adopt young foundling Esther from the orphanage. We are a several generations prior to the action of The Cider House Rules, yet the doctor remains recognisable: still addicted to anesthetic, adored by his staff, starting every speech with “In this place...” But his presence in the book is limited to these early scenes.

The couple worry about parenting Esther properly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “in what way could they help a teenage Jewish female discover her identity?” To address that, we flash forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will become part of the Haganah, the Zionist militant group whose “purpose was to protect Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently form the foundation of the IDF.

Such are huge subjects to take on, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is not actually about St Cloud’s and Dr Larch, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s likewise not about the titular figure. For reasons that must connect to plot engineering, Esther ends up as a gestational carrier for a different of the couple's offspring, and gives birth to a son, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the majority of this novel is his narrative.

And here is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both common and specific. Jimmy moves to – of course – Vienna; there’s talk of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a dog with a meaningful title (the animal, meet Sorrow from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, prostitutes, authors and penises (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a less interesting persona than the heroine promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are several nice scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a few ruffians get beaten with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has never been a delicate novelist, but that is isn't the difficulty. He has repeatedly reiterated his arguments, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to accumulate in the reader’s mind before leading them to fruition in long, jarring, amusing scenes. For example, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to disappear: think of the speech organ in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces echo through the narrative. In this novel, a central person loses an upper extremity – but we only learn thirty pages before the finish.

She returns late in the story, but only with a final impression of concluding. We not once learn the entire narrative of her experiences in the Middle East. Queen Esther is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such delight. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – I reread it in parallel to this work – still holds up wonderfully, four decades later. So read that in its place: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but far as enjoyable.