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If certain authors enjoy an peak phase, during which they achieve the heights consistently, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of four substantial, rewarding books, from his late-seventies hit The World According to Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. Those were generous, humorous, big-hearted works, tying protagonists he refers to as “outliers” to social issues from gender equality to reproductive rights.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, save in page length. His last novel, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages in length of themes Irving had delved into more skillfully in earlier works (mutism, short stature, transgenderism), with a two-hundred-page script in the heart to fill it out – as if filler were needed.

So we come to a latest Irving with caution but still a faint glimmer of hope, which shines stronger when we learn that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “goes back to the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 book is part of Irving’s finest novels, taking place largely in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

Queen Esther is a letdown from a writer who once gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving wrote about termination and acceptance with vibrancy, humor and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a major novel because it left behind the topics that were turning into tiresome habits in his works: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, the city of Vienna, prostitution.

This book begins in the imaginary town of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where the Winslow couple adopt 14-year-old orphan Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a a number of generations ahead of the action of Cider House, yet Dr Larch is still recognisable: still dependent on anesthetic, adored by his staff, opening every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his appearance in Queen Esther is confined to these initial scenes.

The couple are concerned about parenting Esther properly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how could they help a young girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will enter the Haganah, the pro-Zionist armed force whose “mission was to protect Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently become the core of the Israel's military.

These are huge topics to address, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is not really about the orphanage and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s additionally not really concerning Esther. For causes that must relate to plot engineering, Esther becomes a substitute parent for a different of the Winslows’ children, and bears to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the bulk of this story is Jimmy’s tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s fixations return strongly, both common and particular. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a canine with a meaningful name (Hard Rain, recall the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, streetwalkers, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).

He is a less interesting figure than Esther suggested to be, and the supporting characters, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are underdeveloped as well. There are a few enjoyable episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a couple of ruffians get battered with a crutch and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle writer, but that is not the problem. He has consistently restated his arguments, telegraphed plot developments and allowed them to accumulate in the audience's imagination before bringing them to fruition in lengthy, surprising, funny moments. For case, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to disappear: recall the tongue in The Garp Novel, the finger in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces resonate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we merely learn thirty pages later the end.

The protagonist returns late in the novel, but just with a eleventh-hour impression of concluding. We never do find out the full account of her experiences in the Middle East. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such joy. That’s the downside. The good news is that Cider House – upon rereading together with this novel – yet remains wonderfully, four decades later. So pick up that instead: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but 12 times as enjoyable.