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If a few novelists enjoy an imperial phase, during which they hit the summit repeatedly, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of four fat, satisfying books, from his late-seventies success Garp to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. Such were generous, humorous, warm works, linking figures he refers to as “misfits” to societal topics from feminism to termination.

Since His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining results, aside from in word count. His most recent work, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages in length of topics Irving had delved into more skillfully in earlier novels (selective mutism, short stature, gender identity), with a two-hundred-page screenplay in the center to extend it – as if padding were necessary.

Thus we look at a latest Irving with caution but still a faint glimmer of optimism, which burns brighter when we find out that Queen Esther – a only 432 pages long – “returns to the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s very best works, taking place largely in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Dr Wilbur Larch and his protege Wells.

The book is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure

In His Cider House Novel, Irving explored pregnancy termination and identity with colour, humor and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a significant novel because it left behind the subjects that were turning into tiresome tics in his books: wrestling, ursine creatures, the city of Vienna, prostitution.

The novel opens in the imaginary village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where the Winslow couple take in teenage foundling the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a few decades ahead of the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Wilbur Larch remains identifiable: already addicted to the drug, adored by his staff, beginning every address with “In this place...” But his appearance in the book is confined to these opening parts.

The couple are concerned about raising Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a young girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will become part of the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist militant group whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish communities from opposition” and which would eventually establish the foundation of the IDF.

These are huge topics to take on, but having brought in them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not really about St Cloud’s and Dr Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s also not really concerning Esther. For causes that must connect to narrative construction, Esther ends up as a substitute parent for another of the family's children, and delivers to a male child, James, in the early forties – and the bulk of this novel is the boy's tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both regular and specific. Jimmy moves to – where else? – the Austrian capital; there’s talk of avoiding the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a canine with a significant designation (the dog's name, recall the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

He is a duller figure than the heroine suggested to be, and the minor figures, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are several enjoyable scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a fight where a handful of ruffians get battered with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has never been a nuanced novelist, but that is not the issue. He has consistently reiterated his points, telegraphed plot developments and allowed them to build up in the viewer's thoughts before bringing them to completion in extended, surprising, amusing sequences. For example, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to go missing: remember the tongue in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces reverberate through the story. In Queen Esther, a key figure suffers the loss of an limb – but we merely discover 30 pages before the end.

She comes back toward the end in the story, but just with a eleventh-hour sense of ending the story. We not once learn the entire story of her life in the Middle East. This novel is a disappointment from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that His Classic Novel – upon rereading together with this book – still stands up beautifully, four decades later. So pick up it in its place: it’s twice as long as this book, but 12 times as enjoyable.