Queen Esther by John Irving Evaluation – A Letdown Sequel to His Earlier Masterpiece

If certain novelists have an golden phase, where they achieve the heights consistently, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of four fat, rewarding books, from his late-seventies success His Garp Novel to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. These were rich, humorous, compassionate books, connecting figures he describes as “outsiders” to societal topics from women's rights to reproductive rights.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been declining returns, aside from in size. His last work, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into more effectively in prior books (inability to speak, dwarfism, transgenderism), with a 200-page screenplay in the center to fill it out – as if extra material were needed.

So we look at a latest Irving with reservation but still a tiny spark of expectation, which shines stronger when we find out that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages long – “revisits the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties novel is among Irving’s top-tier novels, taking place mostly in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

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

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored pregnancy termination and acceptance with vibrancy, comedy and an total compassion. And it was a important book because it left behind the themes that were becoming tiresome patterns in his books: the sport of wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

Queen Esther opens in the made-up town of the Penacook area in the twentieth century's dawn, where the Winslow couple welcome 14-year-old foundling the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several years before the action of Cider House, yet the doctor stays familiar: still addicted to anesthetic, adored by his staff, starting every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in Queen Esther is restricted to these early scenes.

The Winslows are concerned about raising Esther correctly: she’s from a Jewish background, and “how could they help a young Jewish female find herself?” To tackle that, we flash forward to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to Palestine, where she will enter the paramilitary group, the pro-Zionist militant force whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish towns from opposition” and which would eventually establish the foundation of the Israel's military.

Those are massive topics to take on, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s frustrating that the novel is not really about St Cloud's and the doctor, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s likewise not really concerning the titular figure. For reasons that must involve plot engineering, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for a different of the Winslows’ offspring, and bears to a son, James, in the early forties – and the lion's share of this book is his narrative.

And now is where Irving’s fixations come roaring back, both common and particular. Jimmy goes to – where else? – the city; there’s mention of avoiding the draft notice through bodily injury (His Earlier Book); a canine with a meaningful designation (Hard Rain, recall the earlier dog from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, sex workers, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s passim).

Jimmy is a less interesting figure than the female lead suggested to be, and the supporting characters, such as students the two students, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped also. There are several nice set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a fight where a few thugs get battered with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not ever been a delicate writer, but that is not the problem. He has consistently repeated his ideas, hinted at narrative turns and let them to gather in the viewer's mind before bringing them to fruition in lengthy, jarring, funny scenes. For example, in Irving’s works, anatomical features tend to be lost: remember the tongue in The Garp Novel, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those losses resonate through the plot. In the book, a major figure loses an limb – but we only learn 30 pages before the conclusion.

She reappears toward the end in the novel, but only with a final sense of concluding. We do not learn the full story of her time in the Middle East. This novel is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The good news is that Cider House – I reread it in parallel to this book – even now holds up wonderfully, 40 years on. So read that as an alternative: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but 12 times as great.