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If some novelists experience an peak period, during which they achieve the heights time after time, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of several substantial, satisfying books, from his 1978 breakthrough The World According to Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Those were rich, funny, compassionate books, tying protagonists he describes as “outsiders” to societal topics from gender equality to reproductive rights.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, except in word count. His most recent book, 2022’s The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages long of subjects Irving had explored more effectively in prior novels (selective mutism, dwarfism, gender identity), with a lengthy film script in the heart to pad it out – as if extra material were required.

Thus we come to a new Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of hope, which shines hotter when we find out that Queen Esther – a only 432 pages long – “goes back to the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 book is one of Irving’s top-tier novels, located primarily in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his apprentice Wells.

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

In Cider House, Irving explored pregnancy termination and identity with richness, wit and an all-encompassing empathy. And it was a significant book because it moved past the subjects that were becoming annoying habits in his novels: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

The novel opens in the fictional community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow welcome teenage foundling Esther from St Cloud's home. We are a few years ahead of the events of Cider House, yet Dr Larch is still familiar: even then dependent on ether, adored by his staff, starting every address with “In this place...” But his presence in the book is limited to these early scenes.

The family are concerned about parenting Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a teenage girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary organisation whose “purpose was to defend Jewish towns from hostile actions” and which would eventually establish the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

These are enormous subjects to address, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is hardly about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s even more disappointing that it’s likewise not about the titular figure. For causes that must connect to plot engineering, Esther becomes a substitute parent for a different of the Winslows’ children, and delivers to a son, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is Jimmy’s narrative.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both typical and distinct. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s mention of evading the Vietnam draft through self-harm (Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (the animal, meet the earlier dog from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, streetwalkers, writers and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a duller character than Esther hinted to be, and the supporting characters, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor Eissler, are one-dimensional too. There are several amusing scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of thugs get assaulted with a support and a tire pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not ever been a subtle writer, but that is isn't the issue. He has repeatedly reiterated his points, hinted at story twists and enabled them to build up in the audience's imagination before taking them to resolution in lengthy, jarring, entertaining sequences. For case, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to go missing: recall the tongue in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those absences echo through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a key figure is deprived of an upper extremity – but we merely learn thirty pages the conclusion.

Esther comes back in the final part in the novel, but merely with a last-minute impression of concluding. We never do find out the complete story of her experiences in Palestine and Israel. The book is a letdown from a novelist who once gave such joy. That’s the bad news. The good news is that Cider House – I reread it alongside this novel – still stands up wonderfully, after forty years. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but far as good.