Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

I put the notebook away in my pocket and brushed the report from my face like a swarm of midges.

The woman rose from her chair. It was still the time of day when few genteel ladies are stirring. She walked over to the window and as she brushed past my chair she patted me on the cheek once again, this time with the palm of the hand, and I caught an aroma of woman. She stood at the window and looked out to sea. Her profile was heavy with melancholy with a hint of fierce decision: an uncertain balance. Such a profile evokes in my mind an association with the pungency of a cold rose thawing the hoarfrost off itself some autumn morning. Where does creation end and destruction begin? The distinction is indeterminate, like certain decimals. The wolf-fetters you find in some works of art, fashioned from cat's footfall, bird's spit, and woman's beard-they are also present in such a profile. Woman: Don't stare like that, my dear. Say something instead.