Salka Valka by Halldor Laxness

The coastal steamer attends faithfully to its course, slipping down the middle of the fjord between the mountains, taking its bearings from the stars and peaks and arriving on schedule at Óseyri in Axlarfjörà°ur, its horn blasting through the blowing snow. In the first-class smokers' lounge, two smartly dressed travelers from Reykjavík are discussing the village's faint gleams of light. Their conversation goes something like this:

"When sailing on such a cold and bleak winter's night along these shores, you get the impression that nothing in the world could be more insignificant and meaningless than such a small village under such high mountains. How do people live in such a place? And how do they die? What do they say to each other when they wake in the morning? How do they look at each other on Sundays? And what does the priest feel when he steps into the pulpit at Christmas and Easter? I don't mean what does he say, but what, in all honesty, does he think? Does he see how pointless it all is? And what do the merchant's daughters think about before going to sleep? Yes, what sorts of joys and what sorts of sorrows in fact thrive around those dim glimmers from their little oil lamps? I'm certain that in such places, people's conviction of the futility of existence is reflected in each other's eyes. Surely, everyone must admit that it's absolutely useless to live in such a place, there being no low ground here except for that little valley, which apparently owes its bottom entirely to the river's sediments. All culture, all human contentment, are created on level ground. In a place that's impossible to escape, and where there's never any hope of meeting strangers, nothing can ever be expected, either. What would happen, for instance, if the priest's son stopped fancying the merchant's daughter? Yes, what would happen? I'm just asking."