The Atom Station by Halldór Laxness

One autumn night I woke up in the greyness that precedes dawn; and to the best of my knowledge it was our pastor outside on the paving talking to my father through the living room window. Soon I heard the footsteps of visitors at the farm door. I dressed in a flash and put the child away, but while I was tidying up the spare room, where my daughter and I stayed, the visitors came in.

It seemed at first glance an ominous sight to see a pastor, sober, and without warning, in a remote parish-of-ease at that time of day, but the balance was restored by the fact that on this occasion he had picked himself companions who well became a true pastor on an unexpected journey-the gods themselves. I am not going to describe the shock it gave me to see the two so-and-so's, those phenomena who had done most to turn the tarmac into folk tale in my memories, crossing a threshold north of the mountains in the flesh. But this was clearly not the time and place to indulge in stupid witticisms: the Joint-Stock Company Earnest was deeply imprinted on the expressions of the visitors-I am tempted to say, the Murder Corporation Solemnity; the atom poet Benjamin strode through the mountains with his face to the skies, and in Brilliantine's eyes there lurked that unique shallow stab of insanity which is practically made for bewitching a pastor, yes, even for beguiling a girl in a garden behind a house.