Queen Esther by John Irving Analysis – An Underwhelming Sequel to The Cider House Rules

If some authors have an golden phase, during which they achieve the summit repeatedly, then American author John Irving’s lasted through a run of several substantial, rewarding books, from his 1978 success Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. These were generous, humorous, big-hearted works, linking protagonists he calls “outliers” to societal topics from feminism to reproductive rights.

After His Owen Meany Novel, it’s been waning results, save in word count. His previous book, the 2022 release The Chairlift Book, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had delved into more skillfully in earlier works (selective mutism, short stature, transgenderism), with a lengthy film script in the heart to pad it out – as if extra material were needed.

Therefore we come to a latest Irving with reservation but still a tiny glimmer of expectation, which glows stronger when we learn that Queen Esther – a only four hundred thirty-two pages – “returns to the setting of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 book is part of Irving’s top-tier books, taking place mostly in an institution in Maine's St Cloud’s, run by Wilbur Larch and his apprentice Homer.

The book is a letdown from a author who once gave such joy

In His Cider House Novel, Irving explored termination and belonging with colour, comedy and an all-encompassing empathy. And it was a important book because it abandoned the subjects that were evolving into tiresome tics in his works: wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, sex work.

This book begins in the made-up community of New Hampshire's Penacook in the twentieth century's dawn, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow adopt teenage ward Esther from the orphanage. We are a several generations before the action of His Earlier Novel, yet Wilbur Larch stays recognisable: even then dependent on the drug, beloved by his staff, beginning every talk with “In this place...” But his appearance in the book is restricted to these initial scenes.

The Winslows worry about bringing up Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “in what way could they help a adolescent Jewish female discover her identity?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s later life in the 1920s. She will be part of the Jewish migration to the region, where she will become part of Haganah, the pro-Zionist paramilitary organisation whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish settlements from hostile actions” and which would eventually establish the core of the IDF.

Such are enormous themes to address, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is hardly about the orphanage and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more disappointing that it’s also not about Esther. For causes that must involve narrative construction, Esther ends up as a substitute parent for one more of the Winslows’ children, and gives birth to a male child, James, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is his story.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both typical and specific. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of dodging the Vietnam draft through self-harm (Owen Meany); a dog with a symbolic designation (the animal, remember the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as grappling, prostitutes, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).

Jimmy is a less interesting persona than Esther promised to be, and the minor players, such as young people Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are flat as well. There are a few enjoyable episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a handful of thugs get battered with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not ever been a nuanced author, but that is not the problem. He has consistently restated his points, telegraphed story twists and let them to build up in the viewer's imagination before leading them to fruition in long, surprising, entertaining scenes. For case, in Irving’s books, physical elements tend to go missing: remember the speech organ in The Garp Novel, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those absences reverberate through the story. In the book, a major figure is deprived of an upper extremity – but we only discover thirty pages later the end.

The protagonist reappears late in the novel, but just with a eleventh-hour feeling of wrapping things up. We do not learn the full story of her life in the Middle East. The book is a disappointment from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the downside. The good news is that Cider House – I reread it in parallel to this work – yet stands up wonderfully, after forty years. So pick up the earlier work as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but a dozen times as good.