Salka Valka by Halldor Laxness

Perpetually it shall run, this old motor, which people cannot comprehend, and some call a chariot of salvation. People are trying to exist, and then, when least expected, they don't at all. The village is a village- it seems to be everything, yet is nothing more than life itself. People fight for different causes and have sacred interests that must never be desecrated. Some wish to open our doors to all sorts of Russian depravity. Of course, this is completely absurd. For how would we feel if a stricter regime were imposed, involving the collectivization of women, murdering of children, and blaspheming in public on Sundays? Some people are advocates of independence and relentlessly demand that we cast off the terrible yoke of Danish oppression, at least as quickly as the law allows, for it is anything but pleasant to bear in one's heart the constant consciousness and conviction that one is a Danish slave. Some people pretend to want to provide children with milk. Others want to support Jóhann Bogesen. Still, everything goes as the Lord wills.

For example, let us consider the wage rate, even if such a thing seems quite tedious. Poor folk and their kin join unions and agree on a wage rate: for this amount, we'll work; anything less is out of the question. They speak of these matters passionately and persuasively, and it's as if it has an impact all over the world- not least in Spain. In England, they no longer want to make money available to banks that dole out loans to shipowners so that they can meet ridiculous wage demands. This causes a great deal of agitation in Reykjavík, as revealed when none but the director of the National Bank turned up in person in the village, while here at home, this wage-rate matter opens up new perspectives in every corner, as best seen by the fact that Sveinbjörg, the wife of Magnús Book, actually managed to get out of bed for a day and a half. On the other hand, Beinteinn of Krókur's leg was screwed off, it being a misunderstanding that anyone but he should pay for it. For days, Jóhann Bogesen refrained from going for a walk with his stick, although his digestion badly needs such walks. A whole village, a whole country, a whole world is set in motion by a petty wage rate approved by poor men with moustaches and sorrowful women who are half dead from virtuous childbearing.