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If a few writers experience an peak era, in which they achieve the summit repeatedly, then U.S. author John Irving’s extended through a run of several fat, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies breakthrough Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. Those were rich, witty, warm works, tying protagonists he describes as “outliers” to societal topics from gender equality to abortion.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been declining outcomes, except in page length. His last work, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages long of themes Irving had delved into more effectively in prior works (inability to speak, restricted growth, trans issues), with a lengthy script in the center to fill it out – as if filler were required.

So we approach a recent Irving with caution but still a small spark of hope, which burns stronger when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a mere 432 pages in length – “goes back to the universe of The Cider House Novel”. That mid-eighties work is part of Irving’s very best novels, set largely in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

This novel is a disappointment from a author who in the past gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving wrote about pregnancy termination and belonging with colour, humor and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a major work because it moved past the subjects that were becoming repetitive tics in his novels: wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

This book begins in the imaginary village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt young orphan Esther from the orphanage. We are a a number of decades ahead of the action of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch remains recognisable: already using the drug, adored by his staff, opening every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in this novel is limited to these initial scenes.

The Winslows fret about bringing up Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a young Jewish girl discover her identity?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter the Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary organisation whose “goal was to protect Jewish communities from opposition” and which would later become the basis of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Such are huge subjects to address, but having presented them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is hardly about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more disappointing that it’s additionally not focused on Esther. For motivations that must involve plot engineering, Esther ends up as a surrogate mother for a different of the Winslows’ offspring, and bears to a baby boy, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the bulk of this novel is the boy's narrative.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both regular and distinct. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s talk of dodging the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a dog with a symbolic designation (the animal, remember the earlier dog from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s recurring).

Jimmy is a duller character than Esther hinted to be, and the secondary figures, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are several amusing episodes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a support and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a delicate author, but that is is not the difficulty. He has consistently repeated his arguments, hinted at plot developments and let them to gather in the reader’s mind before leading them to fruition in long, shocking, amusing moments. For case, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to be lost: recall the tongue in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces resonate through the story. In the book, a central character suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we only find out 30 pages the finish.

The protagonist reappears late in the novel, but only with a last-minute feeling of concluding. We not once learn the entire account of her experiences in the region. This novel is a letdown from a author who once gave such delight. That’s the downside. The good news is that Cider House – upon rereading in parallel to this novel – even now stands up excellently, after forty years. So read it in its place: it’s twice as long as Queen Esther, but far as enjoyable.