Queen Esther by John Irving Evaluation – An Underwhelming Follow-up to His Earlier Masterpiece
If certain authors experience an peak period, where they achieve the summit time after time, then American author John Irving’s extended through a sequence of four substantial, rewarding novels, from his late-seventies hit The World According to Garp to 1989’s Owen Meany. Such were expansive, humorous, warm works, tying figures he describes as “outliers” to social issues from gender equality to abortion.
Following Owen Meany, it’s been waning returns, aside from in size. His last novel, 2022’s His Last Chairlift Novel, was 900 pages in length of topics Irving had explored more effectively in earlier works (mutism, restricted growth, trans issues), with a two-hundred-page screenplay in the middle to fill it out – as if filler were required.
So we approach a recent Irving with care but still a tiny spark of expectation, which glows brighter when we discover that Queen Esther – a mere 432 pages long – “goes back to the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That 1985 work is part of Irving’s finest novels, set primarily in an children's home in St Cloud’s, Maine, operated by Dr Larch and his protege Wells.
This novel is a disappointment from a writer who in the past gave such delight
In The Cider House Rules, Irving explored abortion and belonging with vibrancy, wit and an comprehensive understanding. And it was a significant novel because it abandoned the subjects that were becoming annoying tics in his works: the sport of wrestling, bears, Austrian capital, sex work.
This book begins in the made-up village of Penacook, New Hampshire in the twentieth century's dawn, where Thomas and Constance Winslow welcome young foundling the title character from the orphanage. We are a several decades prior to the action of Cider House, yet Dr Larch stays identifiable: still addicted to ether, adored by his staff, opening every talk with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his presence in Queen Esther is restricted to these opening scenes.
The couple worry about bringing up Esther well: she’s of Jewish faith, and “how might they help a young girl of Jewish descent understand her place?” To tackle that, we jump ahead to Esther’s grown-up years in the 1920s. She will be involved of the Jewish migration to Palestine, where she will join the Haganah, the Jewish nationalist paramilitary force whose “goal was to protect Jewish towns from Arab attacks” and which would subsequently become the core of the IDF.
Such are massive subjects to tackle, but having presented them, Irving backs away. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not really about St Cloud's and Wilbur Larch, it’s even more disappointing that it’s additionally not about Esther. For motivations that must relate to plot engineering, Esther becomes a surrogate mother for a different of the family's daughters, and gives birth to a male child, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the majority of this novel is his story.
And here is where Irving’s obsessions come roaring back, both regular and particular. Jimmy moves to – of course – the Austrian capital; there’s discussion of evading the Vietnam draft through bodily injury (A Prayer for Owen Meany); a pet with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, recall Sorrow from The Hotel New Hampshire); as well as wrestling, prostitutes, novelists and genitalia (Irving’s throughout).
Jimmy is a less interesting figure than the heroine promised to be, and the supporting players, such as pupils Claude and Jolanda, and Jimmy’s teacher the tutor, are underdeveloped too. There are some amusing episodes – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a confrontation where a few ruffians get assaulted with a support and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.
Irving has never been a delicate author, but that is isn't the problem. He has repeatedly restated his arguments, foreshadowed plot developments and enabled them to build up in the viewer's thoughts before taking them to fruition in long, surprising, entertaining moments. For instance, in Irving’s books, anatomical features tend to be lost: remember the speech organ in Garp, the finger in His Owen Book. Those missing pieces echo through the plot. In Queen Esther, a major figure loses an arm – but we just discover thirty pages the end.
The protagonist reappears in the final part in the story, but only with a last-minute feeling of wrapping things up. We never do find out the complete account of her life in the Middle East. Queen Esther is a failure from a writer who previously gave such delight. That’s the bad news. The good news is that The Cider House Rules – I reread it together with this book – even now remains beautifully, four decades later. So choose the earlier work in its place: it’s double the length as Queen Esther, but 12 times as great.
