Queen Esther by John Irving Analysis – A Disappointing Sequel to His Earlier Masterpiece
If a few novelists enjoy an golden period, where they hit the pinnacle repeatedly, then U.S. novelist John Irving’s lasted through a run of four substantial, rewarding books, from his late-seventies success The World According to Garp to 1989’s His Owen Meany Book. These were generous, funny, big-hearted books, linking characters he refers to as “misfits” to cultural themes from gender equality to reproductive rights.
Following A Prayer for Owen Meany, it’s been waning results, except in word count. His last novel, the 2022 release The Last Chairlift, was nine hundred pages long of subjects Irving had examined more effectively in prior works (inability to speak, restricted growth, gender identity), with a 200-page script in the middle to extend it – as if filler were required.
Thus we approach a new Irving with care but still a tiny glimmer of optimism, which burns brighter when we find out that Queen Esther – a mere 432 pages long – “goes back to the universe of The Cider House Rules”. That mid-eighties book is one of Irving’s finest works, taking place primarily in an children's home in Maine's St Cloud’s, operated by Dr Wilbur Larch and his assistant Homer.
The book is a disappointment from a writer who previously gave such joy
In His Cider House Novel, Irving explored abortion and identity with richness, wit and an total understanding. And it was a major work because it left behind the topics that were becoming annoying patterns in his books: the sport of wrestling, ursine creatures, Austrian capital, sex work.
This book starts in the imaginary community of Penacook, New Hampshire in the beginning of the 1900s, where Mr. and Mrs. Winslow welcome 14-year-old ward Esther from St Cloud's home. We are a few years before the events of Cider House, yet Wilbur Larch is still identifiable: still addicted to ether, beloved by his staff, opening every speech with “Here in St Cloud’s …” But his appearance in Queen Esther is confined to these opening scenes.
The family worry about parenting Esther properly: she’s Jewish, and “how might they help a young Jewish girl find herself?” To tackle that, we move forward to Esther’s adulthood in the 1920s. She will be part of the Jewish migration to the area, where she will become part of the paramilitary group, the Jewish nationalist militant force whose “mission was to protect Jewish settlements from opposition” and which would subsequently establish the core of the IDF.
Those are massive themes to take on, but having presented them, Irving avoids them. Because if it’s disappointing that this book is not actually about St Cloud’s and Wilbur Larch, it’s all the more disappointing that it’s likewise not about the main character. For causes that must connect to story mechanics, Esther turns into a substitute parent for another of the couple's children, and delivers to a baby boy, Jimmy, in the early forties – and the majority of this book is his narrative.
And at this point is where Irving’s obsessions reappear loudly, both typical and specific. Jimmy relocates to – of course – the city; there’s mention of dodging the draft notice through self-harm (His Earlier Book); a pet with a meaningful designation (the dog's name, recall the earlier dog from His Hotel Novel); as well as wrestling, sex workers, writers and male anatomy (Irving’s passim).
He is a less interesting figure than the heroine hinted to be, and the secondary players, such as students the pair, and Jimmy’s teacher Annelies Eissler, are underdeveloped as well. There are some enjoyable set pieces – Jimmy his first sexual experience; a fight where a few thugs get battered with a walking aid and a bicycle pump – but they’re here and gone.
Irving has not once been a nuanced author, but that is is not the difficulty. He has consistently restated his points, hinted at narrative turns and allowed them to accumulate in the viewer's mind before bringing them to fruition in lengthy, surprising, entertaining moments. For case, in Irving’s novels, physical elements tend to disappear: think of the speech organ in Garp, the digit in Owen Meany. Those losses echo through the plot. In Queen Esther, a key character is deprived of an arm – but we only learn 30 pages the finish.
She comes back in the final part in the book, but only with a final feeling of ending the story. We do not discover the full account of her life in the region. This novel is a letdown from a author who previously gave such delight. That’s the downside. The positive note is that Cider House – revisiting it together with this novel – yet stands up wonderfully, four decades later. So read the earlier work instead: it’s twice as long as this book, but far as enjoyable.
