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If some authors experience an imperial era, during which they reach the pinnacle repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a series of four long, gratifying works, from his 1978 hit His Garp Novel to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. Such were expansive, witty, compassionate works, tying protagonists he refers to as “outliers” to cultural themes from feminism to abortion.

After His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning returns, aside from in size. His last work, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages in length of themes Irving had examined better in previous works (selective mutism, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the middle to pad it out – as if padding were required.

Therefore we approach a recent Irving with care but still a tiny glimmer of hope, which burns brighter when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a just 432 pages – “returns to the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s finest books, taking place primarily in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Larch and his protege Homer Wells.

This novel is a disappointment from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure

In The Cider House Rules, Irving discussed termination and identity with vibrancy, wit and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a significant work because it moved past the topics that were turning into repetitive tics in his books: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

This book begins in the fictional town of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in 14-year-old orphan the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a few generations before the events of Cider House, yet Dr Larch stays identifiable: already using ether, respected by his nurses, opening every address with “In this place...” But his presence in this novel is confined to these initial scenes.

The couple are concerned about parenting Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to the area, where she will become part of Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant organisation whose “mission was to safeguard Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would later become the basis of the IDF.

Those are massive themes to address, but having brought in them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is not actually about the orphanage and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s additionally not about the main character. For motivations that must connect to story mechanics, Esther becomes a substitute parent for one more of the family's daughters, and gives birth to a son, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the majority of this novel is Jimmy’s tale.

And now is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both regular and distinct. Jimmy goes to – where else? – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of avoiding the military conscription through bodily injury (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a significant designation (Hard Rain, recall the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, prostitutes, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a duller character than the female lead suggested to be, and the secondary figures, such as young people the two students, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are one-dimensional also. There are a few amusing set pieces – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a couple of bullies get beaten with a support and a tire pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has never been a subtle author, but that is is not the difficulty. He has consistently restated his ideas, telegraphed plot developments and let them to build up in the reader’s thoughts before bringing them to completion in extended, jarring, entertaining moments. For example, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to disappear: think of the oral part in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those losses resonate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a central figure is deprived of an upper extremity – but we only find out 30 pages later the finish.

The protagonist reappears in the final part in the story, but merely with a last-minute feeling of ending the story. We never learn the complete story of her time in the region. Queen Esther is a failure from a novelist who in the past gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading alongside this book – yet stands up wonderfully, four decades later. So read the earlier work instead: it’s much longer as the new novel, but a dozen times as great.