Irving's Queen Esther Analysis – An Underwhelming Follow-up to The Cider House Rules

If some writers experience an peak phase, where they reach the heights repeatedly, then American author John Irving’s ran through a sequence of several long, gratifying works, from his 1978 breakthrough His Garp Novel to 1989’s A Prayer for Owen Meany. Such were rich, humorous, warm books, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to social issues from women's rights to termination.

Since A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, save in page length. His last work, 2022’s The Chairlift Book, was nine hundred pages in length of subjects Irving had delved into more effectively in earlier books (selective mutism, dwarfism, gender identity), with a 200-page screenplay in the heart to fill it out – as if filler were required.

Thus we look at a new Irving with caution but still a tiny flame of optimism, which glows hotter when we find out that Queen Esther – a just four hundred thirty-two pages long – “revisits the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 book is among Irving’s very best books, located largely in an institution in St Cloud’s, Maine, managed by Wilbur Larch and his assistant Homer.

This novel is a failure from a author who previously gave such delight

In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored termination and acceptance with richness, comedy and an total compassion. And it was a important book because it abandoned the themes that were turning into annoying tics in his books: grappling, bears, Vienna, sex work.

Queen Esther starts in the imaginary village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the early 20th century, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow take in young orphan the protagonist from the orphanage. We are a several decades prior to the events of The Cider House Rules, yet the doctor remains identifiable: already addicted to anesthetic, adored by his caregivers, beginning every talk with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in the book is limited to these initial parts.

The couple are concerned about bringing up Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how could they help a young Jewish girl discover her identity?” To address that, we jump ahead to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be a member of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will become part of Haganah, the Jewish nationalist armed group whose “purpose was to defend Jewish towns from opposition” and which would subsequently become the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Those are huge topics to tackle, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is hardly about St Cloud's and Dr Larch, it’s still more disheartening that it’s likewise not really concerning the titular figure. For causes that must connect to story mechanics, Esther turns into a gestational carrier for one more of the family's offspring, and delivers to a baby boy, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the majority of this book is the boy's story.

And here is where Irving’s obsessions return strongly, both regular and distinct. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of avoiding the draft notice through bodily injury (Owen Meany); a canine with a symbolic name (the dog's name, recall Sorrow from His Hotel Novel); as well as the sport, prostitutes, novelists and male anatomy (Irving’s throughout).

Jimmy is a more mundane persona than Esther suggested to be, and the secondary figures, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor Annelies Eissler, are one-dimensional as well. There are a few amusing episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a confrontation where a few thugs get assaulted with a walking aid and a air pump – but they’re short-lived.

Irving has not once been a subtle novelist, but that is is not the issue. He has consistently reiterated his points, telegraphed plot developments and enabled them to build up in the viewer's mind before taking them to resolution in extended, jarring, funny moments. For instance, in Irving’s novels, body parts tend to go missing: think of the oral part in Garp, the hand part in Owen Meany. Those losses reverberate through the plot. In Queen Esther, a central figure suffers the loss of an upper extremity – but we only learn thirty pages the finish.

The protagonist comes back late in the story, but only with a last-minute impression of concluding. We never do find out the complete story of her experiences in the region. This novel is a letdown from a author who in the past gave such delight. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that Cider House – revisiting it together with this book – even now holds up beautifully, after forty years. So pick up the earlier work in its place: it’s twice as long as Queen Esther, but a dozen times as great.