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If some novelists experience an imperial period, where they achieve the summit repeatedly, then American novelist John Irving’s lasted through a run of several long, gratifying works, from his 1978 hit Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Those were expansive, witty, warm works, linking protagonists he describes as “misfits” to cultural themes from feminism to termination.

Following Owen Meany, it’s been waning results, except in page length. His most recent work, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages long of subjects Irving had examined better in prior works (selective mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a 200-page script in the center to fill it out – as if filler were necessary.

So we approach a recent Irving with reservation but still a tiny flame of expectation, which shines brighter when we discover that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages – “goes back to the universe of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 book is part of Irving’s top-tier novels, set primarily in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Larch and his protege Homer.

The book is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving wrote about pregnancy termination and belonging with colour, humor and an total understanding. And it was a major work because it left behind the themes that were becoming tiresome habits in his works: grappling, bears, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel opens in the imaginary community of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple take in 14-year-old ward the title character from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of years ahead of the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch remains familiar: still dependent on the drug, beloved by his staff, opening every address with “In this place...” But his appearance in the book is restricted to these early parts.

The Winslows fret about bringing up Esther properly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To address that, we flash forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will join the paramilitary group, the Zionist militant organisation whose “purpose was to defend Jewish settlements from Arab attacks” and which would eventually form the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

These are enormous themes to address, but having presented them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is hardly about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s even more disappointing that it’s likewise not really concerning the main character. For reasons that must relate to narrative construction, Esther becomes a substitute parent for another of the family's offspring, and delivers to a son, James, in World War II era – and the bulk of this book is his narrative.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both typical and specific. Jimmy goes to – where else? – the city; there’s discussion of avoiding the military conscription through self-harm (Owen Meany); a pet with a symbolic designation (the animal, recall the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s passim).

The character is a duller character than the female lead hinted to be, and the secondary characters, such as young people the pair, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are some nice scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a few ruffians get battered with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle writer, but that is not the difficulty. He has consistently restated his points, foreshadowed plot developments and enabled them to gather in the reader’s mind before leading them to resolution in long, jarring, amusing sequences. For case, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to go missing: recall the oral part in The Garp Novel, the finger in Owen Meany. Those absences resonate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a major person suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we just discover thirty pages the conclusion.

The protagonist comes back late in the book, but only with a eleventh-hour sense of concluding. We do not discover the complete story of her time in Palestine and Israel. Queen Esther is a letdown from a writer who in the past gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The upside is that Cider House – revisiting it together with this novel – even now holds up beautifully, 40 years on. So read that instead: it’s double the length as this book, but 12 times as good.