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If some authors enjoy an golden period, during which they reach the pinnacle consistently, then U.S. author John Irving’s extended through a sequence of four substantial, satisfying novels, from his late-seventies success Garp to the 1989 release A Prayer for Owen Meany. Those were rich, witty, compassionate novels, tying figures he calls “outliers” to social issues from feminism to abortion.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, except in page length. His last work, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages of themes Irving had delved into more skillfully in previous works (mutism, restricted growth, gender identity), with a two-hundred-page screenplay in the center to pad it out – as if extra material were necessary.

So we look at a new Irving with reservation but still a tiny spark of optimism, which shines brighter when we learn that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the world of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s very best books, located primarily in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Dr Larch and his protege Homer Wells.

The book is a disappointment from a author who in the past gave such pleasure

In The Cider House Rules, Irving wrote about termination and belonging with vibrancy, wit and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a major novel because it left behind the themes that were evolving into tiresome patterns in his works: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Vienna, prostitution.

The novel begins in the made-up village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the beginning of the 1900s, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in young ward the title character from the orphanage. We are a few years ahead of the events of The Cider House Rules, yet Wilbur Larch stays identifiable: already addicted to anesthetic, respected by his caregivers, opening every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in the book is limited to these initial sections.

The family fret about bringing up Esther properly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish female discover her identity?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will become part of Haganah, the pro-Zionist paramilitary force whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish settlements from hostile actions” and which would eventually establish the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Such are huge topics to address, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not really about St Cloud’s and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s additionally not focused on Esther. For reasons that must involve narrative construction, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for another of the couple's children, and gives birth to a son, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is Jimmy’s tale.

And now is where Irving’s fixations return strongly, both common and particular. Jimmy relocates to – where else? – Vienna; there’s talk of evading the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a pet with a symbolic name (the dog's name, remember the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).

Jimmy is a duller character than the heroine promised to be, and the minor players, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are one-dimensional also. There are a few amusing scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a handful of ruffians get battered with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle novelist, but that is isn't the problem. He has always reiterated his arguments, foreshadowed narrative turns and let them to accumulate in the viewer's imagination before leading them to resolution in lengthy, surprising, entertaining scenes. For instance, in Irving’s works, physical elements tend to be lost: remember the tongue in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a major figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we just learn thirty pages the finish.

The protagonist comes back late in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour sense of concluding. We do not discover the entire account of her life in Palestine and Israel. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a novelist who previously gave such joy. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – I reread it alongside this work – yet holds up excellently, after forty years. So pick up it instead: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but 12 times as good.