Queen Esther by John Irving Review – A Disappointing Follow-up to His Classic Work

If some writers enjoy an peak era, during which they hit the summit consistently, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a series of four substantial, satisfying works, from his 1978 hit Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. Such were rich, funny, compassionate books, connecting protagonists he refers to as “outliers” to social issues from feminism to reproductive rights.

Since His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning outcomes, save in word count. His most recent novel, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages of themes Irving had examined more skillfully in earlier works (selective mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a lengthy screenplay in the heart to pad it out – as if padding were necessary.

Therefore we come to a latest Irving with reservation but still a small glimmer of hope, which burns stronger when we find out that Queen Esther – a mere four hundred thirty-two pages – “revisits the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is part of Irving’s top-tier novels, located mostly in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer.

This novel is a failure from a novelist who once gave such joy

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored abortion and identity with vibrancy, humor and an all-encompassing empathy. And it was a major novel because it abandoned the topics that were turning into annoying patterns in his novels: grappling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

This book begins in the fictional community of the Penacook area in the beginning of the 1900s, where Thomas and Constance Winslow welcome young orphan Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a few years prior to the action of The Cider House Rules, yet Dr Larch is still familiar: already dependent on anesthetic, beloved by his caregivers, beginning every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in this novel is restricted to these initial sections.

The family fret about parenting Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To answer that, we flash forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will join the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist militant force whose “purpose was to safeguard Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently form the foundation of the Israel's military.

Such are huge subjects to address, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s frustrating that this book is hardly about the orphanage and the doctor, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s additionally not focused on Esther. For causes that must involve plot engineering, Esther turns into a surrogate mother for a different of the Winslows’ daughters, and delivers to a baby boy, the boy, in the early forties – and the majority of this book is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s preoccupations come roaring back, both regular and specific. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through self-harm (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a pet with a meaningful title (Hard Rain, meet the canine from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, writers and penises (Irving’s passim).

The character is a less interesting persona than the heroine suggested to be, and the minor figures, such as pupils the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are one-dimensional as well. There are some amusing episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a handful of thugs get assaulted with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a subtle author, but that is is not the issue. He has always repeated his arguments, hinted at story twists and let them to build up in the audience's mind before leading them to completion in long, shocking, amusing sequences. For instance, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to go missing: recall the oral part in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those losses echo through the story. In this novel, a central person loses an upper extremity – but we only learn thirty pages before the conclusion.

She comes back toward the end in the book, but merely with a eleventh-hour impression of ending the story. We never discover the complete account of her experiences in Palestine and Israel. Queen Esther is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – I reread it in parallel to this novel – yet holds up excellently, 40 years on. So pick up it as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but 12 times as good.