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If some novelists have an golden era, in which they achieve the pinnacle consistently, then American writer John Irving’s ran through a run of several substantial, gratifying books, from his late-seventies hit His Garp Novel to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. Those were generous, humorous, warm books, connecting figures he refers to as “outliers” to cultural themes from women's rights to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been waning outcomes, except in page length. His last novel, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages of subjects Irving had explored more effectively in previous novels (mutism, short stature, transgenderism), with a two-hundred-page script in the middle to pad it out – as if filler were necessary.

Therefore we approach a new Irving with care but still a tiny flame of optimism, which shines hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the world of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is one of Irving’s finest books, taking place largely in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

This novel is a failure from a author who previously gave such pleasure

In His Cider House Novel, Irving explored abortion and acceptance with richness, comedy and an total understanding. And it was a major work because it moved past the topics that were evolving into tiresome tics in his novels: grappling, wild bears, Austrian capital, sex work.

Queen Esther starts in the made-up village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in teenage ward Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of generations before the events of Cider House, yet the doctor stays identifiable: already addicted to anesthetic, respected by his caregivers, beginning every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his appearance in this novel is restricted to these opening sections.

The couple are concerned about parenting Esther properly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “in what way could they help a adolescent Jewish female understand her place?” To answer that, we move forward to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will become part of the Haganah, the pro-Zionist armed group whose “purpose was to protect Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently form the foundation of the Israel's military.

Such are huge topics to address, but having brought in them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is hardly about the orphanage and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s additionally not about the titular figure. For causes that must relate to plot engineering, Esther becomes a substitute parent for another of the couple's offspring, and gives birth to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the bulk of this story is Jimmy’s story.

And here is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both typical and distinct. Jimmy moves to – where else? – Vienna; there’s talk of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-harm (Owen Meany); a pet with a meaningful name (the animal, recall the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

He is a duller figure than the heroine promised to be, and the secondary characters, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher Eissler, are underdeveloped too. There are a few enjoyable scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a fight where a few thugs get beaten with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not ever been a nuanced writer, but that is isn't the issue. He has always restated his points, hinted at story twists and allowed them to gather in the viewer's thoughts before leading them to completion in long, surprising, amusing sequences. For case, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to disappear: remember the oral part in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those losses reverberate through the story. In the book, a major character is deprived of an upper extremity – but we merely learn 30 pages before the finish.

The protagonist reappears toward the end in the story, but merely with a final impression of wrapping things up. We not once learn the entire narrative of her experiences in Palestine and Israel. The book is a disappointment from a novelist who in the past gave such pleasure. That’s the downside. The positive note is that His Classic Novel – revisiting it in parallel to this work – still stands up beautifully, after forty years. So read it in its place: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but 12 times as enjoyable.