I thought the book was average, nothing particularly interesting. The constant dialogues and events are about nothing.
I memorized when Isabella was speculating about Jesus that they don't take him off the cross and he can't rest so to speak.

"The self-righteous are merciless"
_____________________________________________________
The white spirals of incense eddy upward. Bodendiek puts the
monstrance back in the tabernacle. The light of the candles flickers on
the brocade of his vestments, where a large cross is embroidered, and is
borne upward in the smoke to the great cross on which the bloodstained
Saviour has been hanging for nearly two thousand years. I go on playing
mechanically, thinking of Isabelle and what she has said. Then I think of
the pre-Christian religions I was reading about last night. In those days
the gods of Greece were merry, wandering from cloud to cloud, inclined
to rascality, and always as faithless and changeable as the men to whom
they belonged. They were incarnations and exaggerations of life in its
fullness and cruelty and thoughtlessness and beauty. Isabelle is right: the
pale man above me, with his beard and his bloody limbs, is not that.
Two thousand years, think, two thousand years and through all that time
life with its lights, its cries of passion, its deaths, and its ecstasies has
eddied around the stone structures' where stand the likenesses of this
pale, dying man, dim, bloody, surrounded by millions of Bodendieks—
and the leaden-colored shadow of the Church has reached out over the
nations, smothering the joy of life, transforming Eros, the merry, into a
secret, dirty, sinful bedroom incident, and forgiving nothing despite all
the sermons on love and forgiveness—for true forgiveness means to
accept someone as he is and not to demand expiation and obedience and
submissiveness before the ego te absolvo is pronounced.

_______________________________________________
"Don't go there any more, Rudolf!" she whispers. "They must let Him
go! Him on the cross. He would like to laugh again and sleep and
dance."
"Do you think so?"
"Everyone would like to, Rudolf. They must let Him go. But He is too
dangerous for them. He is not like them. He is the most dangerous of all
—He is the kindest."
"Is that why they keep Him prisoner?"
Isabelle nods. Her breath touches me. "Otherwise they would have to
crucify Him again."
"Yes," I say, looking at her. "I think so too. They would have to kill
Him again; the same people who now pray to Him. They would kill Him,
just as countless people have been killed in His name. In the name of
justice and love of one's neighbor."
Isabelle shivers. "I don't go there any more," she says, pointing to the
chapel.

"They always say one must suffer. The black sisters. Why,
Rudolf?"
I make no reply.
"Who makes us suffer?" she asks, pressing hard against me.
"God," I say bitterly. "If there is a God. He who created us."
"And who will punish God for that?"
"What?"
"Who will punish God for making us suffer?" Isabelle whispers. "Here,
among human beings, you are put in jail or hanged if you do that. Who
will hang God?"

__________________________________________________________
"The guard locks the gate and lights his pipe. The sharp smell of cheap
tobacco strikes me and conjures up a picture: A simple life, without
problems, with an honest calling, an honest wife, honest children, honest
rewards, and an honest death—all accepted as a matter of course, the
day, the evening's leisure, and the night, without asking what lies
beyond. For an instant I am filled with yearning, and a little envy. Then
I look at Isabelle. She is standing at the gate, her hands grasping the iron
bars, her head pressed against them, looking out. She stands thus for a
while. The light grows fuller and redder and more golden, the woods
lose their blue shadows and turn black, and the sky above us is apple-
green and full of sailboats touched with rosy beams."

too much dialogue, I don't like that.