Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

Your emissary has gone outside, where other tasks require attention. The fog is lifting, and there are sunshine patches on the countryside here and there. For the first time I catch a glimpse of that white tureen-lid of the world, Snefellsjökull, between wisps of fog and the shadow of the clouds. Yesterday evening when your emissary went outside to while away the time, fog had merged with dusk and only the white birds were visible. This morning in the middle of the almost overgrown path a dandelion glistens between the paving stones and a buttercup is preparing to burst open. This is between the parsonage and the church.

And now it becomes clear that there was something in what the bishop had said when he warned his emissary that a monstrosity had been built in the west: at any rate, the church looks somewhat insignificant beside this edifice. For one thing, they hadn't even managed to put this monster parallel to the church, but at an angle to it. Either the people who built it hadn't noticed that a church was there, or else they had wanted to trample on the church's toes: there is only just enough space for a person to squeeze between this building and the church.