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If a few writers experience an imperial phase, in which they achieve the pinnacle repeatedly, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of several long, gratifying books, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to the 1989 release Owen Meany. Those were generous, witty, compassionate books, connecting characters he describes as “outsiders” to social issues from gender equality to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been declining results, save in page length. His most recent work, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages long of topics Irving had examined more effectively in previous novels (inability to speak, dwarfism, trans issues), with a 200-page screenplay in the heart to extend it – as if filler were required.

Thus we look at a recent Irving with caution but still a tiny flame of hope, which shines brighter when we discover that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages – “goes back to the universe of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 book is one of Irving’s finest works, taking place largely in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his assistant Wells.

Queen Esther is a failure from a writer who previously gave such delight

In The Cider House Rules, Irving discussed termination and acceptance with vibrancy, wit and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a significant book because it abandoned the themes that were becoming tiresome patterns in his works: wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

This book opens in the imaginary village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome teenage foundling the title character from St Cloud's home. We are a a number of decades before the storyline of Cider House, yet Dr Larch is still recognisable: already dependent on ether, respected by his staff, beginning every address with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in the book is restricted to these opening scenes.

The family fret about parenting Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a teenage Jewish girl understand her place?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the pro-Zionist paramilitary group whose “mission was to defend Jewish communities from opposition” and which would subsequently establish the basis of the IDF.

Those are enormous subjects to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is not actually about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s also not really concerning the titular figure. For motivations that must connect to story mechanics, Esther ends up as a surrogate mother for another of the family's offspring, and gives birth to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the majority of this book is his tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both regular and specific. Jimmy moves to – of course – the city; there’s talk of avoiding the draft notice through bodily injury (His Earlier Book); a dog with a meaningful name (Hard Rain, remember the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s recurring).

Jimmy is a more mundane character than Esther promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are underdeveloped also. There are a few enjoyable scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a handful of thugs get battered with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not once been a nuanced writer, but that is is not the issue. He has always reiterated his points, hinted at story twists and enabled them to accumulate in the reader’s imagination before bringing them to resolution in extended, shocking, amusing scenes. For case, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to disappear: think of the tongue in Garp, the digit in His Owen Book. Those losses echo through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a key person is deprived of an limb – but we merely discover 30 pages later the finish.

Esther comes back late in the story, but just with a last-minute feeling of ending the story. We not once learn the full account of her experiences in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a novelist who in the past gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The upside is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading alongside this work – even now remains excellently, 40 years on. So pick up that instead: it’s much longer as the new novel, but far as good.