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If some writers experience an peak phase, where they reach the heights repeatedly, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a sequence of four substantial, gratifying works, from his late-seventies hit Garp to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were rich, humorous, warm novels, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to cultural themes from women's rights to abortion.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning results, except in size. His previous book, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages long of topics Irving had explored more effectively in prior works (mutism, short stature, gender identity), with a two-hundred-page film script in the middle to extend it – as if filler were required.

Therefore we approach a recent Irving with reservation but still a tiny flame of hope, which shines hotter when we discover that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages in length – “returns to the world of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is one of Irving’s top-tier books, taking place mostly in an orphanage in the town of St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his assistant Wells.

This novel is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving wrote about abortion and belonging with richness, comedy and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a significant book because it abandoned the topics that were evolving into annoying habits in his novels: grappling, bears, the city of Vienna, sex work.

This book starts in the imaginary village of the Penacook area in the early 20th century, where the Winslow couple adopt young foundling the title character from St Cloud's home. We are a a number of decades ahead of the events of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still recognisable: already dependent on anesthetic, beloved by his caregivers, opening every address with “At St Cloud's...” But his presence in Queen Esther is restricted to these initial parts.

The Winslows worry about raising Esther properly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young Jewish girl discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s later life in the Roaring Twenties. She will be a member of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will join Haganah, the Zionist militant organisation whose “purpose was to defend Jewish towns from hostile actions” and which would eventually become the basis of the Israel's military.

Those are enormous topics to address, but having brought in them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is not actually about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s still more disappointing that it’s additionally not really concerning the main character. For reasons that must involve narrative construction, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for a different of the couple's daughters, and delivers to a male child, Jimmy, in World War II era – and the bulk of this novel is the boy's tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both common and distinct. Jimmy goes to – naturally – the Austrian capital; there’s talk of avoiding the draft notice through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a pet with a significant name (Hard Rain, meet the earlier dog from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, prostitutes, writers and penises (Irving’s throughout).

He is a less interesting figure than the heroine suggested to be, and the supporting figures, such as students Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are one-dimensional also. There are a few enjoyable set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a few thugs get assaulted with a crutch and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a subtle writer, but that is isn't the issue. He has repeatedly repeated his points, hinted at narrative turns and enabled them to gather in the audience's thoughts before leading them to resolution in long, jarring, amusing scenes. For example, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to be lost: remember the tongue in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those absences resonate through the narrative. In the book, a central character suffers the loss of an limb – but we merely find out thirty pages the end.

Esther comes back in the final part in the novel, but merely with a eleventh-hour sense of wrapping things up. We never discover the full account of her time in the region. The book is a disappointment from a writer who in the past gave such delight. That’s the downside. The upside is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it alongside this book – yet remains beautifully, 40 years on. So pick up it instead: it’s twice as long as the new novel, but 12 times as good.