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If certain novelists enjoy an imperial phase, during which they reach the pinnacle time after time, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s extended through a run of several substantial, satisfying novels, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to 1989’s Owen Meany. These were rich, witty, warm novels, tying characters he calls “outliers” to cultural themes from feminism to abortion.

Since His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining results, save in page length. His previous work, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into better in prior works (inability to speak, dwarfism, trans issues), with a lengthy script in the center to extend it – as if padding were required.

Thus we approach a recent Irving with care but still a small spark of expectation, which glows hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a mere 432 pages long – “revisits the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties work is one of Irving’s very best books, located primarily in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Wells.

The book is a failure from a author who previously gave such pleasure

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored termination and belonging with colour, humor and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a significant novel because it abandoned the subjects that were turning into annoying patterns in his novels: the sport of wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

The novel begins in the fictional village of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt 14-year-old foundling the title character from the orphanage. We are a several generations prior to the events of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor stays familiar: already addicted to anesthetic, adored by his staff, beginning every address with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in this novel is confined to these early scenes.

The couple are concerned about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish female discover her identity?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the twenties era. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the Zionist paramilitary organisation whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would eventually form the basis of the Israeli Defense Forces.

These are enormous themes to address, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that the novel is hardly about St Cloud's and the doctor, it’s still more upsetting that it’s also not focused on Esther. For causes that must relate to narrative construction, Esther becomes a substitute parent for one more of the couple's offspring, and delivers to a baby boy, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is the boy's tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations return strongly, both common and particular. Jimmy goes to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through self-harm (His Earlier Book); a dog with a significant designation (Hard Rain, remember Sorrow from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, prostitutes, writers and genitalia (Irving’s passim).

The character is a less interesting character than Esther promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are flat too. There are some amusing scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a crutch and a air pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not once been a subtle novelist, but that is isn't the issue. He has consistently reiterated his points, telegraphed narrative turns and enabled them to build up in the reader’s imagination before leading them to fruition in extended, surprising, amusing sequences. For example, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to disappear: recall the speech organ in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those absences resonate through the plot. In this novel, a central figure loses an arm – but we only learn thirty pages later the finish.

She reappears in the final part in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour sense of concluding. We do not learn the complete account of her life in the Middle East. Queen Esther is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading alongside this work – still stands up beautifully, after forty years. So choose it instead: it’s double the length as the new novel, but far as enjoyable.