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If certain writers enjoy an imperial phase, where they reach the pinnacle consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s extended through a sequence of several fat, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies success Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were generous, humorous, compassionate works, tying characters he describes as “misfits” to societal topics from feminism to reproductive rights.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, aside from in page length. His last book, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages long of subjects Irving had delved into better in previous works (mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a two-hundred-page script in the heart to fill it out – as if padding were needed.

Thus we come to a new Irving with caution but still a small glimmer of hope, which glows hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “returns to the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is among Irving’s top-tier books, taking place largely in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer.

Queen Esther is a failure from a writer who once gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving wrote about abortion and acceptance with colour, humor and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a significant book because it abandoned the themes that were evolving into repetitive patterns in his novels: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, the oldest profession.

The novel starts in the made-up town of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome young ward Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of decades ahead of the action of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still recognisable: still dependent on the drug, adored by his caregivers, starting every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his appearance in this novel is restricted to these initial scenes.

The family fret about parenting Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a young Jewish female understand her place?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be part of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary group whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would later form the foundation of the IDF.

Such are massive topics to take on, but having presented them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is not actually about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disheartening that it’s likewise not focused on the main character. For reasons that must relate to story mechanics, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for one more of the family's children, and gives birth to a son, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this story is the boy's tale.

And now is where Irving’s preoccupations return strongly, both typical and specific. Jimmy relocates to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of dodging the draft notice through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (the animal, meet the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, streetwalkers, writers and penises (Irving’s passim).

The character is a more mundane persona than the heroine suggested to be, and the secondary players, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor Eissler, are one-dimensional too. There are some enjoyable scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a few ruffians get battered with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a nuanced novelist, but that is isn't the issue. He has repeatedly reiterated his arguments, hinted at story twists and let them to gather in the viewer's imagination before bringing them to fruition in lengthy, shocking, entertaining scenes. For example, in Irving’s novels, anatomical features tend to be lost: recall the speech organ in The Garp Novel, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses echo through the narrative. In this novel, a major person loses an limb – but we just discover 30 pages later the end.

Esther returns in the final part in the story, but just with a final sense of ending the story. We not once do find out the full account of her experiences in Palestine and Israel. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a author who in the past gave such delight. That’s the downside. The positive note is that His Classic Novel – I reread it together with this book – yet holds up wonderfully, 40 years on. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s double the length as this book, but far as enjoyable.