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If certain writers have an imperial period, where they reach the pinnacle repeatedly, then U.S. author John Irving’s lasted through a run of four long, rewarding novels, from his 1978 hit His Garp Novel to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. These were generous, witty, warm books, linking characters he refers to as “outliers” to social issues from women's rights to reproductive rights.

After Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, save in size. His most recent book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had delved into more effectively in previous novels (selective mutism, dwarfism, transgenderism), with a lengthy script in the middle to pad it out – as if padding were required.

Therefore we approach a recent Irving with caution but still a small glimmer of optimism, which burns brighter when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a mere 432 pages – “goes back to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is among Irving’s top-tier books, set primarily in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his protege Wells.

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

In Cider House, Irving discussed pregnancy termination and belonging with vibrancy, comedy and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a major novel because it moved past the themes that were evolving into repetitive patterns in his books: grappling, wild bears, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

This book begins in the fictional town of New Hampshire's Penacook in the beginning of the 1900s, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome 14-year-old orphan the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of years ahead of the events of His Earlier Novel, yet Dr Larch stays recognisable: already addicted to anesthetic, beloved by his staff, beginning every address with “In this place...” But his role in Queen Esther is limited to these opening scenes.

The Winslows worry about raising Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish girl discover her identity?” To answer that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to the region, where she will enter the Haganah, the pro-Zionist militant organisation whose “goal was to protect Jewish towns from opposition” and which would subsequently establish the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are enormous topics to tackle, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is not really about St Cloud’s and the doctor, it’s even more disappointing that it’s additionally not about the titular figure. For reasons that must involve narrative construction, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for one more of the family's offspring, and delivers to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the lion's share of this novel is the boy's narrative.

And now is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both regular and particular. Jimmy goes to – naturally – the Austrian capital; there’s talk of evading the military conscription through self-harm (Owen Meany); a canine with a symbolic title (the animal, recall the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s passim).

Jimmy is a duller character than Esther hinted to be, and the secondary figures, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are underdeveloped as well. There are several nice set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a couple of thugs get assaulted with a support and a air pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a delicate writer, but that is not the difficulty. He has repeatedly reiterated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and enabled them to gather in the viewer's imagination before bringing them to fruition in extended, jarring, funny moments. For instance, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: remember the speech organ in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the story. In the book, a major character loses an limb – but we merely learn thirty pages later the finish.

The protagonist reappears toward the end in the book, but just with a final sense of concluding. We never discover the complete narrative of her experiences in the region. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a writer who in the past gave such delight. That’s the downside. The upside is that His Classic Novel – I reread it alongside this work – even now holds up excellently, 40 years on. So read that instead: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but 12 times as enjoyable.