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If certain writers enjoy an imperial period, during which they reach the heights time after time, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s ran through a run of several long, satisfying novels, from his 1978 breakthrough His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Those were expansive, humorous, big-hearted books, connecting characters he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from feminism to abortion.

After His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining results, aside from in size. His previous novel, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages in length of themes Irving had explored more effectively in earlier works (mutism, dwarfism, transgenderism), with a lengthy script in the heart to fill it out – as if padding were required.

So we approach a latest Irving with caution but still a small spark of expectation, which shines hotter when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a just four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “returns to the world of The Cider House Novel”. That mid-eighties novel is one of Irving’s finest books, set largely in an orphanage in the town of St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his apprentice Homer.

Queen Esther is a disappointment from a writer who previously gave such joy

In Cider House, Irving wrote about pregnancy termination and acceptance with vibrancy, comedy and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a significant work because it moved past the subjects that were becoming repetitive tics in his books: grappling, ursine creatures, the city of Vienna, sex work.

The novel opens in the fictional village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where the Winslow couple welcome teenage foundling the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a a number of decades before the storyline of Cider House, yet the doctor stays recognisable: even then addicted to ether, respected by his nurses, opening every speech with “In this place...” But his role in this novel is confined to these initial scenes.

The Winslows are concerned about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a young girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will become part of the paramilitary group, the Zionist armed organisation whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish communities from opposition” and which would later establish the foundation of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Those are huge topics to address, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that Queen Esther is not actually about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s also not really concerning the titular figure. For reasons that must relate to story mechanics, Esther turns into a substitute parent for one more of the couple's daughters, and gives birth to a male child, the boy, in World War II era – and the lion's share of this story is Jimmy’s story.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both regular and particular. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of evading the military conscription through bodily injury (His Earlier Book); a pet with a significant title (the dog's name, meet the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as the sport, streetwalkers, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a less interesting character than the female lead hinted to be, and the supporting characters, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are some enjoyable scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a few thugs get battered with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a nuanced novelist, but that is isn't the problem. He has consistently repeated his ideas, hinted at story twists and enabled them to build up in the audience's imagination before leading them to resolution in lengthy, jarring, amusing sequences. For case, in Irving’s novels, anatomical features tend to go missing: remember the oral part in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those absences reverberate through the narrative. In this novel, a central character is deprived of an limb – but we just find out thirty pages before the finish.

She comes back late in the story, but just with a final feeling of ending the story. We not once discover the complete account of her life in Palestine and Israel. This novel is a failure from a author who once gave such joy. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading together with this novel – even now remains excellently, 40 years on. So pick up that in its place: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but far as good.