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If certain writers enjoy an peak era, in which they hit the pinnacle time after time, then American author John Irving’s lasted through a run of four fat, gratifying works, from his 1978 success His Garp Novel to 1989’s Owen Meany. These were expansive, funny, warm books, linking protagonists he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from women's rights to termination.

Since His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning outcomes, except in size. His last work, 2022’s The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into better in prior books (selective mutism, short stature, gender identity), with a two-hundred-page film script in the middle to pad it out – as if padding were necessary.

Thus we approach a recent Irving with caution but still a faint spark of expectation, which glows hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages long – “revisits the world of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is among Irving’s top-tier books, taking place primarily in an institution in the town of St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Larch and his protege Wells.

This novel is a failure from a writer who previously gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving explored abortion and identity with richness, humor and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a important book because it moved past the subjects that were becoming tiresome patterns in his novels: the sport of wrestling, bears, Vienna, sex work.

Queen Esther starts in the imaginary town of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple adopt teenage ward Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a few years before the action of Cider House, yet Wilbur Larch remains recognisable: even then using anesthetic, beloved by his staff, beginning every talk with “At St Cloud's...” But his presence in the book is restricted to these early sections.

The family worry about raising Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how might they help a adolescent Jewish girl understand her place?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to Palestine, where she will become part of the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist armed group whose “mission was to protect Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would eventually form the core of the Israel's military.

These are enormous topics to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that Queen Esther is hardly about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s also not about the main character. For motivations that must relate to story mechanics, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for a different of the Winslows’ daughters, and delivers to a son, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the majority of this story is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s fixations reappear loudly, both common and particular. Jimmy moves to – of course – the city; there’s talk of avoiding the military conscription through self-mutilation (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (the dog's name, meet the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as the sport, streetwalkers, authors and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).

The character is a duller character than the heroine suggested to be, and the minor players, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped also. There are a few enjoyable scenes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a handful of ruffians get battered with a crutch and a bicycle pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not once been a nuanced author, but that is is not the issue. He has repeatedly repeated his points, hinted at narrative turns and enabled them to build up in the viewer's imagination before taking them to completion in lengthy, surprising, entertaining moments. For case, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to go missing: remember the oral part in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central figure is deprived of an limb – but we merely discover 30 pages later the conclusion.

Esther reappears late in the novel, but just with a last-minute sense of wrapping things up. We do not do find out the full account of her time in the region. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a novelist who previously gave such joy. That’s the negative aspect. The upside is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading together with this novel – still holds up beautifully, four decades later. So read it in its place: it’s twice as long as this book, but a dozen times as good.