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If certain authors have an golden period, during which they reach the heights time after time, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s extended through a sequence of several long, gratifying novels, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to 1989’s Owen Meany. Such were rich, funny, warm books, linking protagonists he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from feminism to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been declining returns, except in size. His most recent work, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into more skillfully in previous works (selective mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a lengthy script in the center to fill it out – as if padding were needed.

Thus we come to a new Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of optimism, which glows stronger when we find out that His Queen Esther Novel – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties work is among Irving’s finest books, taking place mostly in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer.

Queen Esther is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving wrote about termination and identity with vibrancy, humor and an all-encompassing understanding. And it was a important book because it left behind the themes that were turning into annoying tics in his works: grappling, bears, Vienna, prostitution.

This book begins in the fictional community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where Thomas and Constance Winslow adopt 14-year-old foundling the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several generations prior to the action of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still identifiable: even then dependent on ether, respected by his staff, starting every speech with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in Queen Esther is limited to these early sections.

The couple fret about parenting Esther well: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a teenage girl of Jewish descent discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the twenties era. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to the area, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the pro-Zionist militant organisation whose “mission was to protect Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would later form the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are enormous topics to address, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is not actually about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disheartening that it’s additionally not about the titular figure. For causes that must relate to plot engineering, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for another of the couple's daughters, and delivers to a baby boy, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is the boy's tale.

And now is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both regular and distinct. Jimmy moves to – of course – the city; there’s talk of evading the draft notice through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic designation (the dog's name, meet the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, streetwalkers, authors and penises (Irving’s throughout).

He is a less interesting character than the heroine hinted to be, and the secondary characters, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are underdeveloped also. There are several nice scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a couple of ruffians get beaten with a support and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not ever been a delicate novelist, but that is isn't the problem. He has consistently repeated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and let them to build up in the audience's thoughts before leading them to resolution in long, jarring, entertaining moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to be lost: remember the tongue in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces reverberate through the plot. In this novel, a major character suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we only learn thirty pages before the conclusion.

The protagonist returns in the final part in the book, but just with a eleventh-hour feeling of ending the story. We do not discover the full account of her time in Palestine and Israel. The book is a disappointment from a author who once gave such pleasure. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading alongside this book – even now stands up beautifully, four decades later. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but a dozen times as great.