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If certain novelists have an imperial period, where they achieve the heights consistently, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a run of four substantial, rewarding works, from his late-seventies hit The World According to Garp to the 1989 release A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were expansive, witty, warm books, tying protagonists he calls “misfits” to social issues from gender equality to termination.

Since His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining outcomes, except in page length. His last novel, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had explored better in earlier books (mutism, short stature, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the center to fill it out – as if padding were needed.

So we look at a new Irving with care but still a tiny flame of expectation, which glows hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a only 432 pages in length – “revisits the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is part of Irving’s very best books, taking place mostly in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his protege Homer.

Queen Esther is a failure from a author who in the past gave such delight

In His Cider House Novel, Irving discussed termination and acceptance with colour, wit and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a significant book because it left behind the topics that were evolving into annoying habits in his books: grappling, bears, the city of Vienna, the oldest profession.

Queen Esther starts in the made-up community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in young orphan the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several years ahead of the events of The Cider House Rules, yet Wilbur Larch is still identifiable: already dependent on ether, adored by his nurses, starting every talk with “In this place...” But his appearance in the book is limited to these early scenes.

The couple fret about parenting Esther well: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish female find herself?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to the region, where she will become part of the Haganah, the Zionist armed group whose “goal was to defend Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would eventually establish the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are massive subjects to address, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is not really about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s also not really concerning the main character. For reasons that must connect to narrative construction, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for one more of the couple's offspring, and delivers to a male child, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is his tale.

And here is where Irving’s fixations reappear loudly, both common and particular. Jimmy moves to – where else? – the city; there’s talk of avoiding the draft notice through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic designation (Hard Rain, meet the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, writers and penises (Irving’s recurring).

Jimmy is a less interesting persona than the heroine promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as students the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are flat as well. There are some nice scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of thugs get beaten with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has never been a delicate author, but that is isn't the problem. He has repeatedly reiterated his points, telegraphed narrative turns and enabled them to accumulate in the audience's thoughts before leading them to completion in extended, surprising, entertaining sequences. For instance, in Irving’s works, body parts tend to go missing: think of the oral part in The Garp Novel, the hand part in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces echo through the story. In this novel, a key person suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we merely discover 30 pages before the finish.

The protagonist comes back late in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour impression of concluding. We not once learn the entire account of her life in the Middle East. This novel is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such pleasure. That’s the downside. The good news is that Cider House – I reread it alongside this work – yet stands up wonderfully, after forty years. So read it in its place: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but far as good.