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If certain authors have an peak period, in which they achieve the pinnacle repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a run of four substantial, rewarding novels, from his 1978 hit The World According to Garp to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. Those were expansive, funny, compassionate novels, tying figures he refers to as “misfits” to societal topics from gender equality to reproductive rights.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been waning outcomes, save in size. His last work, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages long of themes Irving had explored more skillfully in earlier books (mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a lengthy screenplay in the middle to fill it out – as if padding were necessary.

So we approach a recent Irving with caution but still a small spark of hope, which burns brighter when we learn that Queen Esther – a mere 432 pages – “returns to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties work is among Irving’s finest books, set largely in an children's home in the town of St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his protege Wells.

Queen Esther is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving wrote about termination and identity with richness, wit and an total empathy. And it was a major work because it abandoned the subjects that were becoming tiresome habits in his novels: wrestling, bears, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel starts in the fictional town of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt 14-year-old foundling the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of generations before the events of His Earlier Novel, yet Dr Larch remains familiar: still dependent on anesthetic, adored by his caregivers, opening every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in the book is limited to these initial parts.

The couple are concerned about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a teenage Jewish girl discover her identity?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will join the Haganah, the Zionist armed force whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish settlements from opposition” and which would subsequently become the basis of the IDF.

These are massive subjects to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is not really about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s even more disheartening that it’s also not focused on the main character. For causes that must involve story mechanics, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for another of the family's offspring, and gives birth to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the majority of this book is Jimmy’s story.

And at this point is where Irving’s fixations reappear loudly, both common and distinct. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s talk of dodging the draft notice through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, remember the earlier dog from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a duller persona than the heroine suggested to be, and the minor characters, such as students Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher Eissler, are flat as well. There are several amusing scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a fight where a couple of bullies get beaten with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a subtle author, but that is not the issue. He has consistently restated his ideas, telegraphed story twists and let them to accumulate in the viewer's mind before taking them to completion in extended, jarring, entertaining scenes. For instance, in Irving’s books, body parts tend to disappear: remember the tongue in The Garp Novel, the digit in His Owen Book. Those losses reverberate through the story. In the book, a central figure loses an limb – but we merely learn 30 pages before the conclusion.

She reappears late in the story, but merely with a final impression of ending the story. We never discover the full account of her experiences in the region. This novel is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The positive note is that Cider House – upon rereading in parallel to this work – even now stands up excellently, 40 years on. So read that in its place: it’s double the length as this book, but far as enjoyable.