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If a few writers enjoy an golden period, where they reach the heights repeatedly, then American novelist John Irving’s lasted through a series of several long, gratifying novels, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were generous, humorous, big-hearted works, connecting characters he describes as “misfits” to social issues from women's rights to reproductive rights.

After His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning returns, aside from in size. His last novel, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages long of topics Irving had examined more skillfully in earlier works (selective mutism, restricted growth, transgenderism), with a two-hundred-page script in the middle to extend it – as if extra material were needed.

Thus we approach a recent Irving with reservation but still a tiny flame of optimism, which burns stronger when we learn that His Queen Esther Novel – a only 432 pages in length – “revisits the world of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is one of Irving’s finest works, located primarily in an children's home in the town of St Cloud’s, managed by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Wells.

This novel is a letdown from a author who previously gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving discussed abortion and identity with colour, humor and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a significant novel because it moved past the subjects that were becoming annoying tics in his works: wrestling, bears, Vienna, the oldest profession.

Queen Esther opens in the imaginary village of the Penacook area in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in teenage foundling Esther from St Cloud's home. We are a few generations prior to the events of His Earlier Novel, yet Dr Larch is still identifiable: already dependent on ether, adored by his caregivers, beginning every speech with “In this place...” But his role in this novel is restricted to these early parts.

The couple fret about raising Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how might they help a teenage Jewish female find herself?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter Haganah, the pro-Zionist paramilitary force whose “mission was to defend Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would subsequently become the foundation of the IDF.

These are enormous subjects to tackle, but having presented them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is hardly about St Cloud’s and Dr Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s also not focused on the titular figure. For causes that must relate to story mechanics, Esther becomes a substitute parent for another of the couple's children, and bears to a son, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s fixations reappear loudly, both common and specific. Jimmy moves to – where else? – Vienna; there’s mention of avoiding the draft notice through bodily injury (Owen Meany); a canine with a symbolic name (the animal, recall the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a more mundane persona than the female lead suggested to be, and the minor figures, such as students the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are underdeveloped as well. There are some nice episodes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a handful of thugs get assaulted with a crutch and a air pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not once been a nuanced author, but that is not the issue. He has always repeated his arguments, hinted at story twists and allowed them to build up in the audience's mind before leading them to fruition in lengthy, surprising, funny sequences. For example, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to go missing: recall the oral part in Garp, the hand part in His Owen Book. Those losses resonate through the narrative. In the book, a key figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we just learn 30 pages later the conclusion.

She returns toward the end in the book, but only with a last-minute feeling of concluding. We never discover the complete account of her time in Palestine and Israel. The book is a letdown from a novelist who in the past gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The positive note is that Cider House – revisiting it in parallel to this book – even now holds up beautifully, 40 years on. So choose it as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but 12 times as enjoyable.