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If certain authors enjoy an imperial phase, during which they hit the heights consistently, then U.S. writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of four long, gratifying works, from his late-seventies breakthrough The World According to Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were generous, humorous, big-hearted books, linking characters he refers to as “outsiders” to social issues from women's rights to termination.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, except in word count. His previous novel, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages long of topics Irving had delved into better in previous works (inability to speak, restricted growth, trans issues), with a 200-page film script in the heart to pad it out – as if filler were needed.

Therefore we look at a latest Irving with care but still a faint flame of expectation, which shines stronger when we discover that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “revisits the world of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is among Irving’s very best works, taking place mostly in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer Wells.

This novel is a letdown from a author who previously gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving discussed termination and belonging with vibrancy, comedy and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a significant novel because it left behind the topics that were becoming tiresome tics in his works: wrestling, wild bears, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

Queen Esther opens in the fictional village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow adopt 14-year-old ward the title character from the orphanage. We are a a number of generations prior to the storyline of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch stays identifiable: already dependent on anesthetic, adored by his caregivers, starting every speech with “In this place...” But his role in this novel is limited to these initial scenes.

The family fret about raising Esther well: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how could they help a teenage Jewish female discover her identity?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to the area, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the pro-Zionist paramilitary group whose “mission was to defend Jewish settlements from hostile actions” and which would later form the basis of the Israeli Defense Forces.

These are massive topics to tackle, but having brought in them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is not actually about St Cloud’s and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more upsetting that it’s also not about the main character. For motivations that must relate to plot engineering, Esther turns into a substitute parent for one more of the family's children, and delivers to a baby boy, James, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this novel is the boy's story.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both common and distinct. Jimmy moves to – naturally – Vienna; there’s mention of avoiding the Vietnam draft through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a significant designation (the dog's name, meet the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, sex workers, novelists and penises (Irving’s throughout).

He is a duller figure than Esther promised to be, and the minor figures, such as young people the two students, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are flat as well. There are a few enjoyable episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a handful of ruffians get assaulted with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle novelist, but that is isn't the difficulty. He has repeatedly reiterated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and enabled them to accumulate in the audience's thoughts before leading them to resolution in lengthy, shocking, funny moments. For example, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to disappear: remember the tongue in The Garp Novel, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the story. In the book, a central person loses an arm – but we just find out thirty pages the conclusion.

The protagonist comes back toward the end in the story, but just with a last-minute impression of concluding. We not once discover the full narrative of her life in the Middle East. The book is a failure from a writer who once gave such joy. That’s the downside. The positive note is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it together with this work – even now remains wonderfully, 40 years on. So read that instead: it’s double the length as the new novel, but 12 times as enjoyable.