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If certain authors have an imperial phase, in which they hit the pinnacle time after time, then American writer John Irving’s extended through a sequence of four long, satisfying novels, from his late-seventies breakthrough Garp to the 1989 release A Prayer for Owen Meany. These were rich, witty, compassionate works, linking protagonists he calls “misfits” to cultural themes from women's rights to reproductive rights.

After His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining outcomes, save in size. His previous novel, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages long of topics Irving had delved into better in prior books (mutism, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the heart to pad it out – as if filler were required.

Therefore we look at a latest Irving with reservation but still a tiny spark of expectation, which glows stronger when we find out that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages long – “revisits the world of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is part of Irving’s finest works, set largely in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Wells.

The book is a letdown from a writer who in the past gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving wrote about termination and acceptance with richness, comedy and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a important book because it left behind the topics that were turning into tiresome habits in his novels: grappling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, sex work.

This book begins in the imaginary village of New Hampshire's Penacook in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome 14-year-old foundling Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a few decades before the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still familiar: even then dependent on the drug, adored by his staff, opening every address with “In this place...” But his presence in this novel is confined to these opening scenes.

The Winslows fret about bringing up Esther well: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a young Jewish female find herself?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will join the Haganah, the Zionist militant force whose “goal was to defend Jewish towns from opposition” and which would eventually become the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are enormous subjects to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that Queen Esther is hardly about St Cloud’s and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more disappointing that it’s likewise not really concerning the main character. For causes that must involve narrative construction, Esther turns into a substitute parent for one more of the family's daughters, and bears to a male child, the boy, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this novel is his story.

And now is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both regular and distinct. Jimmy moves to – where else? – the city; there’s discussion of evading the military conscription through self-harm (His Earlier Book); a dog with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, remember Sorrow from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a more mundane character than the heroine hinted to be, and the supporting figures, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are a few amusing set pieces – Jimmy deflowering; a brawl where a handful of thugs get battered with a support and a air pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has not ever been a subtle novelist, but that is not the issue. He has always reiterated his points, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to gather in the audience's mind before taking them to completion in lengthy, shocking, amusing scenes. For instance, in Irving’s novels, anatomical features tend to disappear: recall the tongue in Garp, the hand part in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces echo through the narrative. In this novel, a major figure loses an limb – but we merely learn 30 pages the conclusion.

The protagonist returns in the final part in the story, but merely with a final sense of ending the story. We never learn the complete story of her time in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a author who once gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The positive note is that His Classic Novel – I reread it together with this work – still stands up wonderfully, after forty years. So pick up it instead: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but a dozen times as good.