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If certain authors enjoy an peak era, during which they hit the pinnacle time after time, then American novelist John Irving’s extended through a sequence of several substantial, satisfying works, from his 1978 hit Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Those were generous, funny, compassionate works, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to societal topics from feminism to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been declining results, save in page length. His last book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages long of topics Irving had delved into more skillfully in earlier books (inability to speak, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the middle to extend it – as if padding were necessary.

Thus we look at a recent Irving with care but still a small spark of optimism, which shines hotter when we find out that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages – “goes back to the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is part of Irving’s finest works, taking place largely in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his apprentice Homer.

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

In Cider House, Irving wrote about termination and identity with colour, wit and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a major book because it moved past the topics that were turning into repetitive habits in his works: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

The novel begins in the imaginary community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow take in teenage foundling the title character from St Cloud's home. We are a few decades ahead of the action of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch stays familiar: even then dependent on anesthetic, respected by his staff, starting every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in this novel is confined to these opening parts.

The family worry about raising Esther properly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a teenage Jewish female discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s grown-up years in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to Palestine, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the Zionist militant group whose “goal was to defend Jewish settlements from hostile actions” and which would later become the basis of the Israel's military.

These are enormous topics to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is not actually about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s additionally not focused on Esther. For causes that must relate to story mechanics, Esther turns into a substitute parent for another of the couple's offspring, and gives birth to a male child, the boy, in World War II era – and the lion's share of this book is Jimmy’s narrative.

And now is where Irving’s fixations come roaring back, both common and specific. Jimmy goes to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of avoiding the military conscription through self-harm (His Earlier Book); a pet with a significant title (the dog's name, recall Sorrow from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a less interesting persona than Esther hinted to be, and the supporting players, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped too. There are some nice scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a handful of ruffians get assaulted with a support and a tire pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has never been a subtle author, but that is isn't the issue. He has consistently restated his points, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to build up in the reader’s mind before leading them to fruition in long, surprising, entertaining sequences. For example, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to go missing: remember the oral part in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses echo through the story. In this novel, a key person is deprived of an arm – but we just find out 30 pages before the conclusion.

The protagonist returns toward the end in the book, but only with a last-minute impression of wrapping things up. We never do find out the complete narrative of her life in Palestine and Israel. This novel is a letdown from a novelist who in the past gave such joy. That’s the negative aspect. The upside is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading together with this work – still remains beautifully, four decades later. So read it as an alternative: it’s double the length as the new novel, but far as good.