I have always been a fan of the crisp imagery of Hilda "H.D." Doolittle's poetry. So when my local used book vendor offered a hitherto unknown volume of Ms. Doolittle's fiction, I snapped it up. Imagine, then, my disappointment to find that such a powerful poet could be such a dull, uninteresting writer of prose. As an exploration of the longing for the divine feminine, it fails; as a portrait of aristocratic ennui, it succeeds without being memorable or innovative. The characters lack individuality, the spirituality lacks focus or depth, and the fragments of beautiful imagery are wasted by being scattered willy-nilly throughout the boggy narrative.
If you must read something about Pilate's wife, try Charlotte Bronte's version.