Prose as we've come to expect from Jeanette Winterson - often breath-takingly lovely, hardly a wasted word and deft use of the magical and the bizarre to make sense of the real and the unreal. But, the novel, although markedly superior to much of what's currently being produced, serves only to augment themes and metaphors expounded time and again in her other literary offerings. As Winterson says, she's a "preacher" - and knows only too well how to use the 'motif' to good persuasive effect. But enough already. It's time for Winterson to shed the evangelical robes because her art is suffering. She may be able to climb out of gender, out of this time, through her fiction, but she needs to climb out of her pre-occupations and tell us a little less about herself. She need write no autobiography. 'The Powerbook' is not essential reading, unlike 'The Passion' and 'Written on the Body'.