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If a few writers enjoy an golden period, where they reach the heights repeatedly, then American author John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of several substantial, satisfying books, from his 1978 breakthrough His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were expansive, witty, big-hearted books, linking protagonists he calls “outsiders” to societal topics from gender equality to termination.

Following His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning returns, aside from in page length. His last novel, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages of themes Irving had explored more effectively in earlier books (inability to speak, short stature, trans issues), with a lengthy screenplay in the center to extend it – as if padding were needed.

So we come to a new Irving with reservation but still a small flame of expectation, which burns stronger when we learn that His Queen Esther Novel – a only 432 pages in length – “revisits the world of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s very best books, taking place largely in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

Queen Esther is a letdown from a author who previously gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving wrote about termination and acceptance with colour, comedy and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a significant novel because it moved past the themes that were evolving into annoying patterns in his works: wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, the oldest profession.

The novel opens in the imaginary community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow welcome young orphan the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several years before the events of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still identifiable: still dependent on ether, beloved by his staff, starting every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in the book is restricted to these early scenes.

The couple worry about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a young Jewish female discover her identity?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish exodus to the region, where she will join the paramilitary group, the Zionist paramilitary force whose “purpose was to defend Jewish towns from opposition” and which would later become the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are huge topics to address, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not actually about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s likewise not really concerning Esther. For reasons that must relate to narrative construction, Esther turns into a substitute parent for another of the family's offspring, and bears to a baby boy, the boy, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this story is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s fixations come roaring back, both common and specific. Jimmy moves to – where else? – Vienna; there’s talk of evading the military conscription through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a symbolic designation (the dog's name, meet Sorrow from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, streetwalkers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).

Jimmy is a more mundane figure than Esther hinted to be, and the minor players, such as students the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are some amusing episodes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a fight where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not ever been a nuanced author, but that is not the problem. He has consistently restated his points, hinted at story twists and allowed them to gather in the audience's imagination before leading them to resolution in long, jarring, entertaining scenes. For instance, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: recall the speech organ in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those absences reverberate through the narrative. In this novel, a key character is deprived of an arm – but we merely find out 30 pages the conclusion.

She reappears in the final part in the novel, but merely with a final feeling of concluding. We not once do find out the full narrative of her experiences in the region. This novel is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such joy. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it in parallel to this book – yet holds up excellently, 40 years on. So read that instead: it’s double the length as this book, but far as great.