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If some writers enjoy an imperial period, where they hit the pinnacle time after time, then U.S. author John Irving’s extended through a series of several substantial, gratifying books, from his late-seventies breakthrough The World According to Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. These were rich, funny, big-hearted books, tying figures he describes as “outsiders” to social issues from women's rights to reproductive rights.

After A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, save in page length. His last novel, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages of topics Irving had examined more skillfully in earlier books (selective mutism, short stature, trans issues), with a lengthy script in the center to pad it out – as if padding were necessary.

So we approach a new Irving with caution but still a small spark of optimism, which burns hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a only 432 pages – “returns to the universe of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 novel is part of Irving’s finest novels, taking place primarily in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Wells.

The book is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving discussed termination and acceptance with vibrancy, humor and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a significant work because it abandoned the subjects that were becoming repetitive tics in his novels: grappling, wild bears, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel begins in the imaginary village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where Thomas and Constance Winslow take in teenage foundling the title character from St Cloud's home. We are a several generations before the storyline of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor is still recognisable: still using the drug, adored by his caregivers, starting every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in the book is limited to these opening parts.

The Winslows worry about bringing up Esther properly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish girl discover her identity?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s later life in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary group whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish settlements from opposition” and which would subsequently become the basis of the IDF.

These are enormous themes to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not actually about St Cloud’s and Dr Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s also not really concerning the main character. For reasons that must relate to story mechanics, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for a different of the Winslows’ children, and gives birth to a baby boy, the boy, in 1941 – and the majority of this novel is Jimmy’s story.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both common and specific. Jimmy moves to – of course – the city; there’s talk of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (Owen Meany); a pet with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, meet the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, writers and penises (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a less interesting persona than Esther promised to be, and the supporting players, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor Annelies Eissler, are flat also. There are a few enjoyable episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a few thugs get assaulted with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a delicate writer, but that is isn't the issue. He has repeatedly restated his arguments, hinted at plot developments and let them to accumulate in the audience's thoughts before taking them to fruition in long, surprising, entertaining moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, anatomical features tend to disappear: recall the oral part in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces echo through the plot. In the book, a central character loses an limb – but we just discover thirty pages later the conclusion.

She comes back in the final part in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour feeling of wrapping things up. We never learn the full story of her experiences in the region. This novel is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The upside is that His Classic Novel – I reread it together with this work – even now holds up wonderfully, 40 years on. So pick up the earlier work as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but far as great.