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If certain writers have an peak era, in which they hit the heights repeatedly, then U.S. writer John Irving’s ran through a sequence of several long, satisfying novels, from his 1978 breakthrough Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Those were expansive, funny, warm works, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to societal topics from feminism to abortion.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been declining returns, save in size. His most recent work, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages in length of themes Irving had delved into more skillfully in previous books (inability to speak, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the center to pad it out – as if padding were needed.

So we look at a latest Irving with reservation but still a small spark of optimism, which glows hotter when we find out that His Queen Esther Novel – a only four hundred thirty-two pages – “returns to the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is among Irving’s finest books, taking place mostly in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Dr Wilbur Larch and his protege Homer Wells.

The book is a failure from a writer who previously gave such delight

In His Cider House Novel, Irving discussed abortion and acceptance with colour, humor and an total empathy. And it was a significant novel because it moved past the themes that were evolving into annoying tics in his works: the sport of wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

The novel starts in the made-up community of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in teenage ward Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a few generations prior to the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet the doctor stays identifiable: still dependent on ether, respected by his caregivers, beginning every talk with “In this place...” But his appearance in Queen Esther is restricted to these initial scenes.

The Winslows worry about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a young Jewish girl discover her identity?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will join Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant organisation whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish towns from opposition” and which would later establish the foundation of the IDF.

Those are huge topics to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is not actually about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s likewise not about Esther. For reasons that must involve narrative construction, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for a different of the Winslows’ offspring, and gives birth to a son, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this novel is his story.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both regular and particular. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s mention of dodging the Vietnam draft through bodily injury (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful designation (the animal, remember the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, prostitutes, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a more mundane persona than the female lead promised to be, and the minor players, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are underdeveloped also. There are some nice set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a support and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a delicate writer, but that is isn't the problem. He has repeatedly repeated his arguments, foreshadowed story twists and allowed them to gather in the reader’s mind before leading them to resolution in long, shocking, entertaining scenes. For instance, in Irving’s books, body parts tend to disappear: recall the speech organ in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces resonate through the narrative. In this novel, a key person is deprived of an limb – but we only discover thirty pages the conclusion.

The protagonist reappears in the final part in the story, but merely with a last-minute impression of ending the story. We do not discover the entire narrative of her life in the region. This novel is a failure from a writer who once gave such joy. That’s the downside. The upside is that Cider House – revisiting it alongside this book – even now holds up excellently, 40 years on. So pick up the earlier work as an alternative: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but 12 times as good.