Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

We went out into the drunken churchyard and sat down on a tombstone under a reeling cross that was trying not to fall on its back in the withered grass. The sun shines on the glacier; it has once again moved closer. It was tantalising this morning as it was tearing off the last shreds of fog; by midday it had come quite close, and yet one wanted it to come even closer. But when it is as close as this, it is as if one suddenly sees the sweat-pores on a girl one has loved at a distance. One no longer wants to go nearer. Here's hoping it doesn't now lead to contempt! At any rate, the eye becomes dull and thought stands still.

Embi (using pocket recorder and shorthand notebook): I know it's unnecessary to make the point that this churchyard is only fair to middling, pastor Jón, and barely that.