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If a few authors have an peak phase, during which they hit the heights consistently, then American writer John Irving’s extended through a run of several fat, satisfying works, from his late-seventies success The World According to Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Those were expansive, witty, big-hearted works, connecting protagonists he calls “outliers” to cultural themes from gender equality to abortion.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been declining outcomes, aside from in word count. His most recent work, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages in length of themes Irving had examined better in prior works (inability to speak, short stature, trans issues), with a 200-page script in the heart to pad it out – as if padding were required.

So we approach a latest Irving with care but still a small glimmer of optimism, which glows hotter when we discover that His Queen Esther Novel – a mere 432 pages – “goes back to the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is one of Irving’s finest books, taking place mostly in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

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

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored termination and identity with richness, comedy and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a significant book because it left behind the subjects that were evolving into annoying habits in his books: grappling, bears, the city of Vienna, sex work.

Queen Esther begins in the imaginary village of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple welcome 14-year-old ward Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a few years ahead of the events of Cider House, yet Wilbur Larch stays identifiable: even then using anesthetic, adored by his staff, beginning every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in Queen Esther is restricted to these early parts.

The Winslows fret about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how could they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will join the Haganah, the Zionist armed force whose “mission was to defend Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would eventually form the foundation of the IDF.

Such are enormous themes to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that Queen Esther is hardly about the orphanage and Dr Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s likewise not focused on Esther. For motivations that must connect to plot engineering, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for another of the couple's offspring, and delivers to a baby boy, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this novel is the boy's tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both regular and specific. Jimmy relocates to – of course – Vienna; there’s mention of evading the military conscription through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a meaningful name (the dog's name, recall Sorrow from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, streetwalkers, writers and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a duller character than the heroine promised to be, and the supporting players, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s teacher Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are several nice set pieces – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a couple of ruffians get battered with a walking aid and a bicycle pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not ever been a delicate writer, but that is isn't the issue. He has repeatedly reiterated his ideas, telegraphed story twists and allowed them to build up in the audience's mind before leading them to fruition in extended, surprising, entertaining moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to go missing: think of the speech organ in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses resonate through the narrative. In the book, a central figure is deprived of an arm – but we just find out thirty pages later the conclusion.

The protagonist reappears in the final part in the book, but only with a last-minute impression of concluding. We never learn the entire story of her life in Palestine and Israel. This novel is a disappointment from a author who in the past gave such delight. That’s the downside. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading together with this work – yet remains wonderfully, 40 years on. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s double the length as the new novel, but a dozen times as good.