🔗 Share this article

If a few novelists enjoy an peak phase, during which they achieve the summit time after time, then American writer John Irving’s extended through a series of several fat, satisfying books, from his 1978 breakthrough Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Those were rich, witty, compassionate works, connecting figures he calls “outsiders” to societal topics from feminism to termination.

Following His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been declining returns, save in word count. His most recent novel, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages of topics Irving had explored better in earlier works (inability to speak, restricted growth, transgenderism), with a 200-page film script in the center to fill it out – as if extra material were required.

So we come to a recent Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of hope, which glows stronger when we discover that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties work is one of Irving’s very best works, taking place mostly in an children's home in the town of St Cloud’s, managed by Wilbur Larch and his protege Homer Wells.

The book is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such delight

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored abortion and belonging with richness, humor and an all-encompassing understanding. And it was a important novel because it abandoned the themes that were becoming tiresome tics in his books: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, Vienna, the oldest profession.

Queen Esther starts in the made-up town of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple take in 14-year-old ward Esther from St Cloud's home. We are a few generations prior to the events of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor stays recognisable: already using ether, respected by his staff, opening every address with “In this place...” But his role in the book is confined to these initial parts.

The family fret about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a adolescent Jewish girl find herself?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist armed organisation whose “goal was to defend Jewish communities from hostile actions” and which would eventually establish the foundation of the Israel's military.

These are massive subjects to address, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is not really about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s even more disappointing that it’s likewise not really concerning the titular figure. For causes that must involve plot engineering, Esther becomes a substitute parent for another of the couple's daughters, and bears to a son, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this novel is Jimmy’s narrative.

And here is where Irving’s preoccupations return strongly, both regular and distinct. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of avoiding the military conscription through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a dog with a significant title (the animal, remember the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, sex workers, writers and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a duller character than the female lead promised to be, and the supporting characters, such as students the two students, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are one-dimensional also. There are several amusing scenes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a delicate novelist, but that is not the issue. He has consistently restated his points, telegraphed story twists and allowed them to build up in the reader’s mind before bringing them to fruition in long, surprising, funny scenes. For example, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to be lost: recall the tongue in The Garp Novel, the finger in His Owen Book. Those losses reverberate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a key person suffers the loss of an limb – but we just learn 30 pages before the finish.

She reappears toward the end in the story, but merely with a last-minute sense of wrapping things up. We do not do find out the full account of her time in the region. The book is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such joy. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that Cider House – I reread it together with this book – yet stands up wonderfully, four decades later. So choose that instead: it’s twice as long as this book, but a dozen times as enjoyable.