John Irving's Queen Esther Analysis – A Disappointing Sequel to His Earlier Masterpiece

If some novelists have an imperial period, in which they hit the heights repeatedly, then U.S. author John Irving’s extended through a series of several fat, rewarding works, from his 1978 success Garp to the 1989 release Owen Meany. These were expansive, witty, big-hearted novels, linking characters he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from gender equality to termination.

Since Owen Meany, it’s been diminishing outcomes, aside from in page length. His previous novel, the 2022 release His Last Chairlift Novel, was nine hundred pages of topics Irving had delved into more skillfully in earlier books (selective mutism, restricted growth, transgenderism), with a 200-page film script in the heart to fill it out – as if filler were needed.

Thus we approach a latest Irving with care but still a small glimmer of expectation, which glows brighter when we find out that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the universe of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s top-tier books, located largely in an children's home in the town of St Cloud’s, operated by Wilbur Larch and his protege Wells.

Queen Esther is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight

In His Cider House Novel, Irving discussed abortion and belonging with richness, wit and an all-encompassing compassion. And it was a major work because it left behind the topics that were becoming tiresome tics in his works: wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, prostitution.

This book opens in the made-up town of the Penacook area in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow welcome young ward the protagonist from St Cloud’s. We are a few years prior to the storyline of Cider House, yet Wilbur Larch stays recognisable: still addicted to ether, beloved by his staff, beginning every address with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in this novel is confined to these initial sections.

The couple worry about parenting Esther well: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a teenage girl of Jewish descent discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s adulthood in the Roaring Twenties. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will become part of the Haganah, the Jewish nationalist militant group whose “goal was to safeguard Jewish towns from hostile actions” and which would later become the foundation of the Israel's military.

Those are massive themes to take on, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that this book is not really about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more disheartening that it’s also not about the main character. For reasons that must involve story mechanics, Esther ends up as a substitute parent for another of the Winslows’ daughters, and gives birth to a baby boy, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the majority of this story is his story.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both typical and distinct. Jimmy goes to – where else? – Vienna; there’s mention of dodging the military conscription through self-mutilation (His Earlier Book); a canine with a significant name (Hard Rain, meet the canine from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, sex workers, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a duller figure than Esther promised to be, and the minor figures, such as students the pair, and Jimmy’s instructor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are several amusing scenes – Jimmy deflowering; a fight where a couple of bullies get assaulted with a walking aid and a tire pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a delicate author, but that is is not the difficulty. He has always reiterated his arguments, telegraphed narrative turns and let them to accumulate in the reader’s thoughts before bringing them to resolution in lengthy, surprising, amusing scenes. For instance, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to disappear: think of the oral part in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces reverberate through the story. In the book, a central figure loses an upper extremity – but we only learn thirty pages later the finish.

The protagonist reappears in the final part in the novel, but merely with a last-minute feeling of concluding. We do not learn the full narrative of her experiences in the region. Queen Esther is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – upon rereading alongside this novel – still stands up beautifully, 40 years on. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s much longer as the new novel, but a dozen times as good.