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If a few novelists experience an golden era, in which they reach the pinnacle repeatedly, then American novelist John Irving’s lasted through a run of four substantial, gratifying novels, from his late-seventies hit His Garp Novel to 1989’s Owen Meany. Those were rich, humorous, compassionate books, connecting figures he describes as “misfits” to cultural themes from gender equality to reproductive rights.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, aside from in size. His previous book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages long of topics Irving had delved into more skillfully in prior books (inability to speak, dwarfism, trans issues), with a two-hundred-page script in the center to extend it – as if filler were needed.

Therefore we come to a latest Irving with caution but still a faint flame of optimism, which glows brighter when we discover that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “goes back to the world of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is one of Irving’s very best books, located largely in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Dr Wilbur Larch and his assistant Homer.

Queen Esther is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving explored abortion and identity with vibrancy, comedy and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a important work because it abandoned the topics that were turning into annoying patterns in his novels: grappling, bears, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel opens in the fictional community of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple welcome young foundling Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of decades ahead of the storyline of Cider House, yet Dr Larch stays recognisable: still using the drug, adored by his staff, starting every talk with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in the book is limited to these opening scenes.

The couple worry about parenting Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how could they help a young Jewish girl understand her place?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the twenties era. She will be involved of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will join the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary organisation whose “mission was to defend Jewish settlements from Arab attacks” and which would eventually form the foundation of the IDF.

Those are massive themes to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is hardly about St Cloud’s and the doctor, it’s even more disappointing that it’s also not focused on the titular figure. For reasons that must relate to narrative construction, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for one more of the family's daughters, and gives birth to a baby boy, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the majority of this novel is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both typical and specific. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through self-harm (Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic designation (the animal, remember Sorrow from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a duller persona than Esther hinted to be, and the minor figures, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are some enjoyable scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a couple of ruffians get assaulted with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a delicate novelist, but that is is not the difficulty. He has consistently repeated his arguments, hinted at story twists and enabled them to gather in the audience's mind before leading them to resolution in lengthy, shocking, entertaining scenes. For example, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to disappear: think of the oral part in The Garp Novel, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those absences echo through the story. In this novel, a major character suffers the loss of an arm – but we only find out thirty pages the finish.

The protagonist returns toward the end in the novel, but merely with a last-minute sense of concluding. We do not learn the full narrative of her experiences in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a author who once gave such pleasure. That’s the downside. The positive note is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it alongside this work – still stands up excellently, 40 years on. So pick up it instead: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but far as good.