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If certain novelists have an imperial period, where they hit the summit consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of several substantial, satisfying books, from his 1978 success The World According to Garp to 1989’s Owen Meany. Those were generous, witty, compassionate works, connecting figures he describes as “outsiders” to social issues from women's rights to reproductive rights.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, aside from in size. His last work, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages long of themes Irving had delved into better in previous books (selective mutism, dwarfism, gender identity), with a 200-page film script in the heart to extend it – as if extra material were necessary.

Therefore we look at a recent Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of expectation, which glows hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “returns to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is one of Irving’s finest books, located mostly in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer.

The book is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving discussed abortion and acceptance with richness, wit and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a significant novel because it abandoned the subjects that were evolving into tiresome patterns in his books: grappling, wild bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

This book starts in the imaginary village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt young orphan the title character from St Cloud's home. We are a few generations prior to the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still familiar: still dependent on ether, respected by his nurses, opening every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in the book is limited to these opening sections.

The Winslows worry about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young girl of Jewish descent discover her identity?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to the region, where she will enter the Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant group whose “goal was to defend Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would later form the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

These are enormous themes to take on, but having presented them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that Queen Esther is hardly about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s still more disheartening that it’s additionally not really concerning Esther. For reasons that must connect to story mechanics, Esther ends up as a surrogate mother for one more of the family's children, and bears to a son, James, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is his story.

And here is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both common and particular. Jimmy moves to – naturally – the city; there’s mention of avoiding the draft notice through self-mutilation (Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic title (the animal, remember Sorrow from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, streetwalkers, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a less interesting figure than the heroine hinted to be, and the secondary players, such as students Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are underdeveloped also. There are a few amusing set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a few bullies get beaten with a crutch and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a nuanced author, but that is isn't the problem. He has always restated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and let them to gather in the audience's imagination before bringing them to resolution in extended, jarring, funny moments. For example, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to go missing: remember the tongue in Garp, the digit in His Owen Book. Those losses resonate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a major figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we merely find out 30 pages before the conclusion.

The protagonist returns in the final part in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour feeling of concluding. We never do find out the full narrative of her experiences in the region. This novel is a letdown from a author who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the negative aspect. The positive note is that Cider House – revisiting it in parallel to this work – yet stands up beautifully, four decades later. So choose that as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but far as great.