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If some authors enjoy an peak phase, in which they reach the heights time after time, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s extended through a sequence of four fat, satisfying works, from his 1978 breakthrough His Garp Novel to the 1989 release Owen Meany. These were generous, witty, big-hearted works, connecting characters he calls “outliers” to cultural themes from women's rights to reproductive rights.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning outcomes, except in page length. His previous novel, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages of subjects Irving had examined more skillfully in prior books (selective mutism, dwarfism, gender identity), with a lengthy film script in the center to pad it out – as if filler were necessary.

Therefore we approach a latest Irving with care but still a faint glimmer of hope, which shines brighter when we learn that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “returns to the world of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is among Irving’s top-tier works, located primarily in an children's home in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his apprentice Wells.

The book is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving discussed abortion and belonging with colour, comedy and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a important novel because it abandoned the themes that were becoming tiresome tics in his novels: wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, sex work.

The novel begins in the fictional village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Thomas and Constance Winslow adopt young foundling the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a few generations ahead of the events of The Cider House Rules, yet the doctor is still identifiable: already using the drug, respected by his staff, starting every talk with “In this place...” But his appearance in Queen Esther is restricted to these initial scenes.

The family fret about bringing up Esther well: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a teenage Jewish female understand her place?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter the Haganah, the pro-Zionist militant force whose “mission was to protect Jewish communities from opposition” and which would eventually form the basis of the IDF.

These are massive themes to address, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is hardly about the orphanage and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s also not really concerning Esther. For reasons that must involve plot engineering, Esther turns into a substitute parent for a different of the family's offspring, and delivers to a son, James, in World War II era – and the bulk of this book is the boy's tale.

And here is where Irving’s fixations reappear loudly, both regular and particular. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of evading the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic title (the dog's name, meet the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s passim).

He is a duller figure than the heroine suggested to be, and the secondary players, such as students the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher Eissler, are flat as well. There are a few amusing scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of bullies get battered with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a delicate author, but that is not the problem. He has repeatedly reiterated his ideas, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to gather in the audience's thoughts before taking them to resolution in lengthy, jarring, funny scenes. For instance, in Irving’s books, body parts tend to disappear: remember the tongue in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces echo through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central character is deprived of an upper extremity – but we just learn 30 pages before the conclusion.

The protagonist comes back in the final part in the story, but only with a last-minute impression of concluding. We not once do find out the entire narrative of her experiences in the Middle East. The book is a failure from a writer who in the past gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that Cider House – upon rereading alongside this work – yet stands up excellently, after forty years. So read the earlier work in its place: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but 12 times as good.