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

If some novelists enjoy an imperial phase, during which they achieve the summit consistently, then American writer John Irving’s lasted through a series of four fat, rewarding works, from his late-seventies hit The World According to Garp to the 1989 release His Owen Meany Book. These were generous, funny, compassionate novels, tying protagonists he refers to as “outsiders” to cultural themes from feminism to reproductive rights.

Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, aside from in size. His most recent book, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was 900 pages long of themes Irving had examined more effectively in prior novels (inability to speak, restricted growth, trans issues), with a lengthy screenplay in the center to extend it – as if extra material were necessary.

Thus we approach a new Irving with care but still a faint glimmer of expectation, which glows hotter when we learn that Queen Esther – a just 432 pages in length – “returns to the world of The Cider House Novel”. That 1985 novel is one of Irving’s very best works, taking place mostly in an orphanage in St Cloud’s, Maine, run by Dr Larch and his assistant Wells.

The book is a letdown from a novelist who previously gave such delight

In Cider House, Irving wrote about abortion and identity with richness, wit and an total understanding. And it was a major book because it left behind the subjects that were evolving into tiresome habits in his novels: wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, the oldest profession.

This book starts in the imaginary village of the Penacook area in the twentieth century's dawn, where the Winslow couple adopt young orphan Esther from St Cloud’s. We are a several generations prior to the events of Cider House, yet the doctor stays identifiable: even then using ether, adored by his staff, beginning every talk with “At St Cloud's...” But his role in the book is limited to these early sections.

The family fret about parenting Esther correctly: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a adolescent girl of Jewish descent find herself?” To address that, we move forward to Esther’s grown-up years in the twenties era. She will be part of the Jewish emigration to the region, where she will join the Haganah, the pro-Zionist paramilitary group whose “mission was to protect Jewish communities from Arab attacks” and which would eventually establish the core of the Israeli Defense Forces.

Those are enormous topics to address, but having introduced them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s regrettable that Queen Esther is hardly about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more upsetting that it’s also not really concerning the titular figure. For reasons that must connect to story mechanics, Esther turns into a gestational carrier for another of the Winslows’ offspring, and gives birth to a male child, Jimmy, in 1941 – and the lion's share of this book is the boy's tale.

And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both regular and distinct. Jimmy moves to – naturally – the city; there’s mention of evading the Vietnam draft through bodily injury (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a canine with a meaningful name (Hard Rain, recall the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as the sport, streetwalkers, authors and male anatomy (Irving’s recurring).

Jimmy is a more mundane character than the female lead promised to be, and the minor players, such as pupils the pair, and Jimmy’s tutor the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are some enjoyable episodes – Jimmy losing his virginity; a brawl where a couple of ruffians get assaulted with a support and a tire pump – but they’re brief.

Irving has not once been a subtle author, but that is is not the issue. He has repeatedly restated his points, hinted at story twists and allowed them to build up in the viewer's imagination before leading them to completion in extended, jarring, entertaining sequences. For example, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to be lost: think of the oral part in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those missing pieces echo through the plot. In the book, a major figure suffers the loss of an limb – but we only learn thirty pages the finish.

She reappears late in the book, but just with a eleventh-hour impression of wrapping things up. We do not discover the entire account of her experiences in the Middle East. The book is a failure from a novelist who once gave such joy. That’s the negative aspect. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – upon rereading in parallel to this book – still remains wonderfully, after forty years. So choose that as an alternative: it’s twice as long as this book, but 12 times as enjoyable.