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

If certain novelists enjoy an imperial era, in which they reach the heights repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s ran through a run of several substantial, rewarding books, from his 1978 hit Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. Those were rich, funny, compassionate works, connecting characters he refers to as “outsiders” to societal topics from gender equality to abortion.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing returns, save in page length. His previous book, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages of themes Irving had examined more effectively in previous books (mutism, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page film script in the heart to pad it out – as if extra material were needed.

Thus we look at a new Irving with care but still a small glimmer of hope, which glows stronger when we discover that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages long – “revisits the setting of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 novel is among Irving’s very best novels, taking place primarily in an children's home in Maine's St Cloud’s, managed by Dr Wilbur Larch and his assistant Homer.

This novel is a letdown from a novelist who in the past gave such pleasure

In Cider House, Irving wrote about pregnancy termination and belonging with richness, wit and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a significant novel because it left behind the subjects that were turning into annoying tics in his works: grappling, wild bears, Vienna, prostitution.

Queen Esther begins in the imaginary town of the Penacook area in the beginning of the 1900s, where the Winslow couple adopt young foundling the title character from St Cloud’s. We are a several generations ahead of the storyline of His Earlier Novel, yet the doctor stays recognisable: still addicted to ether, adored by his nurses, opening every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in the book is restricted to these opening scenes.

The Winslows fret about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent discover her identity?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be part of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will become part of Haganah, the Jewish nationalist armed group whose “mission was to protect Jewish towns from hostile actions” and which would later become the basis of the IDF.

Those are massive topics to take on, but having introduced them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s regrettable that the novel is not really about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s additionally not focused on the titular figure. For motivations that must connect to plot engineering, Esther becomes a gestational carrier for another of the family's daughters, and bears to a baby boy, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the majority of this book is his story.

And now is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both typical and distinct. Jimmy goes to – where else? – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of avoiding the Vietnam draft through bodily injury (Owen Meany); a dog with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, meet the earlier dog from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, sex workers, writers and male anatomy (Irving’s throughout).

He is a more mundane figure than Esther suggested to be, and the supporting characters, such as students the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor Annelies Eissler, are one-dimensional as well. There are some enjoyable set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a brawl where a handful of bullies get assaulted with a walking aid and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a nuanced writer, but that is not the difficulty. He has always reiterated his ideas, hinted at plot developments and enabled them to gather in the audience's imagination before taking them to completion in long, jarring, entertaining sequences. For example, in Irving’s novels, anatomical features tend to go missing: remember the speech organ in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a major person loses an arm – but we only learn 30 pages the conclusion.

She comes back toward the end in the book, but just with a last-minute feeling of concluding. We do not do find out the entire account of her experiences in the region. The book is a failure from a novelist who previously gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The upside is that Cider House – upon rereading in parallel to this work – yet remains beautifully, 40 years on. So choose the earlier work instead: it’s double the length as this book, but far as good.