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If a few novelists experience an peak era, where they reach the summit consistently, then U.S. author John Irving’s lasted through a series of several substantial, satisfying works, from his 1978 hit The World According to Garp to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. These were rich, humorous, warm novels, linking figures he describes as “misfits” to societal topics from feminism to abortion.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, save in size. His previous novel, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had explored more effectively in earlier novels (mutism, dwarfism, trans issues), with a 200-page film script in the heart to fill it out – as if filler were required.

So we approach a latest Irving with reservation but still a small spark of hope, which burns stronger when we learn that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages long – “returns to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is part of Irving’s finest novels, located primarily in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

Queen Esther is a letdown from a writer who in the past gave such delight

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored termination and acceptance with richness, comedy and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a major work because it moved past the themes that were evolving into repetitive patterns in his books: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, prostitution.

Queen Esther opens in the fictional community of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt 14-year-old foundling Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of years before the action of Cider House, yet Wilbur Larch remains familiar: already addicted to the drug, respected by his nurses, starting every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in this novel is limited to these early scenes.

The couple worry about raising Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist armed force whose “mission was to protect Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would subsequently establish the core of the IDF.

These are enormous themes to address, but having brought in them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is hardly about St Cloud’s and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s likewise not about Esther. For reasons that must connect to narrative construction, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for a different of the family's offspring, and gives birth to a male child, James, in 1941 – and the majority of this novel is the boy's story.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both regular and distinct. Jimmy relocates to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of avoiding the Vietnam draft through self-harm (His Earlier Book); a canine with a meaningful designation (the animal, meet Sorrow from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, sex workers, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s recurring).

He is a duller character than Esther suggested to be, and the secondary players, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped too. There are several amusing episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a couple of thugs get battered with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a delicate novelist, but that is is not the problem. He has consistently restated his points, hinted at story twists and let them to accumulate in the audience's mind before leading them to fruition in long, surprising, entertaining moments. For example, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to disappear: remember the tongue in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those absences echo through the story. In the book, a central figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we merely learn 30 pages the conclusion.

Esther reappears late in the book, but just with a final impression of wrapping things up. We do not do find out the complete account of her time in the Middle East. Queen Esther is a letdown from a writer who once gave such pleasure. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading in parallel to this novel – yet remains wonderfully, 40 years on. So choose that as an alternative: it’s much longer as the new novel, but far as enjoyable.