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

If certain novelists experience an peak period, where they achieve the summit repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s ran through a series of several substantial, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies hit Garp to 1989’s Owen Meany. Such were generous, humorous, compassionate works, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to cultural themes from women's rights to abortion.

After A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been declining returns, aside from in size. His previous book, 2022’s The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages of themes Irving had examined better in previous works (selective mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a two-hundred-page screenplay in the heart to extend it – as if extra material were required.

So we come to a recent Irving with reservation but still a faint spark of optimism, which burns brighter when we learn that His Queen Esther Novel – a mere 432 pages – “goes back to the world of His Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is part of Irving’s finest books, taking place primarily in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Dr Larch and his apprentice Homer.

This novel is a failure from a author who in the past gave such pleasure

In The Cider House Rules, Irving wrote about abortion and acceptance with vibrancy, humor and an comprehensive empathy. And it was a major novel because it abandoned the subjects that were turning into annoying habits in his books: the sport of wrestling, wild bears, Austrian capital, prostitution.

Queen Esther starts in the imaginary village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome teenage ward the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a a number of decades prior to the events of His Earlier Novel, yet Wilbur Larch is still identifiable: still dependent on the drug, beloved by his caregivers, beginning every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his role in the book is confined to these opening scenes.

The family worry about raising Esther correctly: she’s of Jewish faith, and “in what way could they help a young Jewish female discover her identity?” To answer that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish exodus to the area, where she will become part of the Haganah, the Zionist militant force whose “mission was to safeguard Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would eventually establish the basis of the Israel's military.

These are massive themes to take on, but having brought in them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is not actually about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more upsetting that it’s also not focused on the main character. For causes that must relate to plot engineering, Esther ends up as a surrogate mother for one more of the Winslows’ children, and gives birth to a male child, James, in the early forties – and the bulk of this novel is his tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s preoccupations reappear loudly, both common and particular. Jimmy goes to – where else? – the Austrian capital; there’s mention of avoiding the draft notice through bodily injury (His Earlier Book); a pet with a symbolic name (the dog's name, meet Sorrow from Hotel New Hampshire); as well as the sport, prostitutes, writers and penises (Irving’s recurring).

The character is a less interesting figure than the heroine promised to be, and the secondary players, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are a few enjoyable set pieces – Jimmy deflowering; a fight where a few bullies get assaulted with a support and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.

Irving has never been a nuanced novelist, but that is not the problem. He has consistently reiterated his ideas, hinted at narrative turns and enabled them to accumulate in the viewer's imagination before bringing them to completion in extended, surprising, entertaining moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to be lost: remember the oral part in The Garp Novel, the finger in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces reverberate through the narrative. In Queen Esther, a central figure is deprived of an arm – but we just learn thirty pages the end.

Esther comes back toward the end in the book, but just with a last-minute impression of concluding. We do not discover the full account of her life in Palestine and Israel. This novel is a failure from a writer who once gave such pleasure. That’s the bad news. The upside is that Cider House – upon rereading alongside this book – yet holds up beautifully, after forty years. So pick up that as an alternative: it’s double the length as the new novel, but 12 times as great.