Queen Esther by John Irving Review – An Underwhelming Sequel to His Classic Work

If certain novelists enjoy an peak period, where they achieve the heights consistently, then American novelist John Irving’s extended through a run of four fat, gratifying works, from his late-seventies breakthrough The World According to Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. Those were generous, witty, warm novels, linking figures he refers to as “outsiders” to social issues from gender equality to reproductive rights.

After A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, except in word count. His previous book, 2022’s The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages of subjects Irving had delved into more skillfully in prior books (selective mutism, short stature, gender identity), with a lengthy script in the heart to fill it out – as if extra material were necessary.

Therefore we come to a recent Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of expectation, which glows stronger when we find out that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages in length – “revisits the universe of His Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is one of Irving’s top-tier books, taking place largely in an orphanage in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

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

In Cider House, Irving discussed pregnancy termination and acceptance with colour, comedy and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a significant novel because it abandoned the topics that were becoming repetitive habits in his works: wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, sex work.

This book opens in the imaginary community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in teenage ward the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several years ahead of the events of Cider House, yet Dr Larch remains familiar: already using anesthetic, respected by his staff, starting every address with “In this place...” But his presence in Queen Esther is restricted to these early parts.

The Winslows worry about bringing up Esther well: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how might they help a adolescent Jewish girl understand her place?” To answer that, we jump ahead to Esther’s later life in the twenties era. She will be part of the Jewish exodus to Palestine, where she will enter the Haganah, the Zionist armed force whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish towns from opposition” and which would eventually establish the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Such are massive subjects to tackle, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that the novel is not really about St Cloud's and the doctor, it’s still more disheartening that it’s additionally not focused on Esther. For causes that must relate to narrative construction, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for one more of the Winslows’ children, and gives birth to a baby boy, the boy, in World War II era – and the lion's share of this book is Jimmy’s tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s fixations come roaring back, both common and specific. Jimmy relocates to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of evading the draft notice through bodily injury (His Earlier Book); a canine with a significant name (the animal, recall Sorrow from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, writers and genitalia (Irving’s recurring).

Jimmy is a less interesting persona than the heroine hinted to be, and the minor characters, such as students Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s tutor Eissler, are flat also. There are a few amusing set pieces – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a handful of ruffians get battered with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has never been a subtle author, but that is is not the problem. He has repeatedly restated his arguments, foreshadowed story twists and let them to build up in the reader’s thoughts before taking them to completion in lengthy, shocking, entertaining moments. For example, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to disappear: remember the speech organ in Garp, the finger in Owen Meany. Those losses echo through the narrative. In the book, a major character is deprived of an arm – but we merely learn 30 pages before the finish.

Esther reappears late in the story, but merely with a eleventh-hour feeling of wrapping things up. We not once discover the entire account of her time in the region. This novel is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The upside is that The Cider House Rules – revisiting it in parallel to this novel – even now stands up beautifully, four decades later. So pick up it in its place: it’s twice as long as Queen Esther, but far as enjoyable.