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If certain novelists experience an peak period, where they reach the summit consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s lasted through a run of four long, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies success His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were expansive, humorous, big-hearted novels, tying protagonists he calls “outliers” to social issues from women's rights to termination.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been declining results, save in word count. His previous work, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had delved into better in previous novels (inability to speak, short stature, transgenderism), with a 200-page screenplay in the heart to pad it out – as if extra material were required.

Therefore we look at a latest Irving with care but still a tiny spark of optimism, which burns brighter when we find out that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “returns to the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is among Irving’s finest works, located primarily in an institution in the town of St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his protege Wells.

This novel is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving discussed pregnancy termination and acceptance with vibrancy, comedy and an total understanding. And it was a significant book because it moved past the topics that were turning into annoying habits in his books: wrestling, bears, the city of Vienna, sex work.

The novel begins in the made-up town of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple adopt teenage orphan the protagonist from St Cloud's home. We are a several generations ahead of the events of Cider House, yet the doctor is still familiar: already using ether, respected by his caregivers, starting every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his appearance in Queen Esther is limited to these opening parts.

The family fret about bringing up Esther well: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a young Jewish female find herself?” To address that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist armed group whose “purpose was to protect Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently establish the basis of the IDF.

These are massive subjects to tackle, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is hardly about St Cloud’s and the doctor, it’s even more disheartening that it’s likewise not really concerning the main character. For motivations that must connect to narrative construction, Esther turns into a gestational carrier for another of the family's daughters, and gives birth to a son, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is the boy's narrative.

And here is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both regular and distinct. Jimmy relocates to – naturally – Vienna; there’s mention of avoiding the Vietnam draft through bodily injury (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (the dog's name, recall the earlier dog from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, streetwalkers, writers and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).

He is a less interesting figure than Esther promised to be, and the secondary characters, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are flat as well. There are some amusing set pieces – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a handful of bullies get beaten with a support and a tire pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not once been a nuanced writer, but that is is not the difficulty. He has always reiterated his arguments, telegraphed narrative turns and allowed them to accumulate in the reader’s mind before leading them to completion in extended, jarring, funny scenes. For case, in Irving’s books, body parts tend to be lost: remember the oral part in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses echo through the story. In Queen Esther, a central person suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we merely find out 30 pages the finish.

The protagonist reappears toward the end in the book, but merely with a final sense of ending the story. We never discover the full narrative of her life in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a novelist who in the past gave such pleasure. That’s the downside. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it alongside this book – yet remains wonderfully, four decades later. So pick up the earlier work in its place: it’s much longer as this book, but far as great.