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If some writers experience an imperial phase, in which they hit the summit consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of four substantial, rewarding works, from his 1978 hit His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Those were expansive, funny, big-hearted works, tying characters he refers to as “outsiders” to societal topics from women's rights to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been waning outcomes, except in word count. His most recent book, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages in length of subjects Irving had explored better in earlier novels (selective mutism, dwarfism, trans issues), with a 200-page screenplay in the middle to fill it out – as if filler were needed.

Thus we approach a new Irving with care but still a small flame of optimism, which glows stronger when we learn that His Queen Esther Novel – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages long – “returns to the world of The Cider House Novel”. That mid-eighties book is among Irving’s very best works, taking place mostly in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Dr Larch and his protege Homer Wells.

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

In Cider House, Irving wrote about abortion and acceptance with vibrancy, wit and an all-encompassing empathy. And it was a important work because it moved past the subjects that were becoming repetitive habits in his books: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, prostitution.

Queen Esther opens in the imaginary community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt teenage ward the title character from the orphanage. We are a several years prior to the storyline of Cider House, yet the doctor remains recognisable: still addicted to the drug, respected by his nurses, starting every address with “In this place...” But his appearance in the book is confined to these early sections.

The Winslows worry about bringing up Esther properly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will become part of Haganah, the Zionist militant group whose “purpose was to protect Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would later form the foundation of the Israel's military.

Those are enormous themes to take on, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is hardly about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s likewise not about Esther. For motivations that must connect to narrative construction, Esther turns into a substitute parent for another of the Winslows’ daughters, and delivers to a baby boy, the boy, in World War II era – and the majority of this story is his tale.

And here is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both common and distinct. Jimmy goes to – naturally – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (the dog's name, recall Sorrow from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, prostitutes, writers and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

He is a duller persona than the heroine suggested to be, and the supporting figures, such as students the pair, and Jimmy’s instructor Eissler, are flat as well. There are a few nice episodes – Jimmy deflowering; a brawl where a handful of thugs get assaulted with a support and a air pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not ever been a delicate novelist, but that is is not the problem. He has consistently repeated his points, hinted at plot developments and allowed them to accumulate in the reader’s imagination before taking them to completion in extended, shocking, funny sequences. For instance, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: think of the speech organ in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces echo through the narrative. In this novel, a key character suffers the loss of an arm – but we merely find out 30 pages later the end.

The protagonist returns late in the book, but just with a final impression of wrapping things up. We do not do find out the full story of her experiences in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a writer who once gave such joy. That’s the downside. The upside is that His Classic Novel – I reread it in parallel to this book – still remains beautifully, 40 years on. So read that instead: it’s twice as long as this book, but far as good.