Irving's Queen Esther Evaluation – A Letdown Follow-up to His Earlier Masterpiece

If a few novelists experience an golden period, during which they hit the pinnacle repeatedly, then American novelist John Irving’s ran through a sequence of several long, gratifying books, from his late-seventies success Garp to 1989’s Owen Meany. These were expansive, witty, compassionate novels, tying figures he refers to as “outsiders” to societal topics from women's rights to reproductive rights.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, aside from in page length. His previous novel, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages of themes Irving had explored more effectively in previous books (selective mutism, short stature, transgenderism), with a lengthy script in the heart to extend it – as if padding were required.

Thus we look at a latest Irving with reservation but still a faint spark of hope, which glows brighter when we discover that Queen Esther – a only 432 pages long – “returns to the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is among Irving’s finest novels, taking place largely in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Wilbur Larch and his protege Homer.

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

In Cider House, Irving discussed pregnancy termination and identity with richness, wit and an comprehensive compassion. And it was a important book because it left behind the themes that were turning into tiresome patterns in his works: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, the city of Vienna, the oldest profession.

The novel begins in the fictional community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where the Winslow couple welcome 14-year-old foundling the title character from the orphanage. We are a a number of decades before the events of Cider House, yet the doctor remains familiar: even then addicted to anesthetic, adored by his caregivers, opening every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in Queen Esther is limited to these early parts.

The family worry about bringing up Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a young girl of Jewish descent discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s grown-up years in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will enter Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary organisation whose “mission was to safeguard Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently establish the foundation of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Those are massive topics to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving dodges out. Because if it’s frustrating that Queen Esther is not really about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more disappointing that it’s likewise not really concerning Esther. For causes that must relate to story mechanics, Esther becomes a substitute parent for a different of the couple's children, and gives birth to a son, the boy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this story is Jimmy’s tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both common and distinct. Jimmy relocates to – where else? – the city; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a dog with a significant title (Hard Rain, recall the canine from His Hotel Novel); as well as grappling, sex workers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).

He is a less interesting character than the heroine promised to be, and the secondary players, such as students Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor Annelies Eissler, are flat as well. There are several amusing scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a confrontation where a couple of ruffians get battered with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a nuanced writer, but that is is not the difficulty. He has always reiterated his points, telegraphed story twists and allowed them to build up in the viewer's imagination before taking them to completion in long, surprising, entertaining sequences. For example, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: remember the oral part in The Garp Novel, the hand part in His Owen Book. Those absences echo through the narrative. In this novel, a central figure loses an upper extremity – but we just find out thirty pages later the end.

Esther comes back in the final part in the story, but only with a last-minute feeling of concluding. We never do find out the entire story of her time in the region. The book is a failure from a writer who previously gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The upside is that Cider House – revisiting it alongside this novel – yet stands up excellently, 40 years on. So pick up it in its place: it’s much longer as Queen Esther, but far as great.