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If a few novelists experience an imperial phase, in which they achieve the pinnacle consistently, then U.S. author John Irving’s extended through a series of four substantial, gratifying works, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were expansive, witty, warm books, connecting figures he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from feminism to abortion.

After Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, except in word count. His most recent work, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages long of themes Irving had examined better in previous novels (selective mutism, short stature, trans issues), with a 200-page film script in the heart to pad it out – as if extra material were needed.

So we approach a latest Irving with reservation but still a faint glimmer of expectation, which shines hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages – “revisits the world of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is part of Irving’s very best works, located largely in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

This novel is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving explored pregnancy termination and identity with vibrancy, humor and an total compassion. And it was a significant novel because it moved past the subjects that were becoming annoying tics in his books: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, the city of Vienna, the oldest profession.

This book begins in the made-up village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where Thomas and Constance Winslow adopt teenage ward the title character from the orphanage. We are a several decades ahead of the events of Cider House, yet Dr Larch stays recognisable: already dependent on anesthetic, respected by his nurses, opening every talk with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in this novel is confined to these initial sections.

The family worry about raising Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a teenage girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will become part of Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary force whose “mission was to defend Jewish communities from opposition” and which would later become the basis of the IDF.

Those are huge themes to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is not actually about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disheartening that it’s additionally not about the main character. For causes that must connect to narrative construction, Esther becomes a substitute parent for a different of the Winslows’ daughters, and delivers to a son, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the bulk of this story is Jimmy’s story.

And now is where Irving’s fixations come roaring back, both common and distinct. Jimmy goes to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of evading the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a dog with a symbolic designation (the animal, meet the earlier dog from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, prostitutes, writers and genitalia (Irving’s passim).

The character is a more mundane figure than Esther promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are one-dimensional also. There are several enjoyable scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a fight where a couple of thugs get beaten with a support and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a subtle author, but that is not the issue. He has always reiterated his points, hinted at narrative turns and enabled them to build up in the reader’s thoughts before taking them to fruition in lengthy, jarring, funny scenes. For example, in Irving’s books, body parts tend to be lost: recall the speech organ in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces resonate through the plot. In the book, a key figure loses an arm – but we just learn 30 pages later the conclusion.

She returns late in the book, but just with a final feeling of wrapping things up. We not once do find out the full story of her time in the region. The book is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that Cider House – revisiting it together with this book – even now remains excellently, four decades later. So read the earlier work as an alternative: it’s double the length as the new novel, but 12 times as enjoyable.