Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

0415 o'clock: the sun already up and shining on the face of the pastor's sleeping guest. He swings his legs out of bed, determined to be off as soon as possible, and starts to get dressed. Consider myself in no way obliged to put up with hunger and misery here a day longer for the sake of an affair in which I think few people take much interest, least of all the parties concerned; besides, another day is unlikely to add much to yesterday as regards the prospect of salvation for souls in this part of the world. I start packing my equipment, the tapes and shorthand notes, into the duffel bag in the hope that I haven't entangled myself in anything for which I shall have to suffer later; and secondly, that I shall never be reckoned other than an impartial reporter about Christianity at Glacier.

If pastor Jón Prímus has fled the farm on my account, I send him my greetings. If Miss Hnallþóra is annoyed with me because of inhumane attitudes towards sweet-cakes, she'll just have to argue it out with herself. Consider myself beholden to no one in this place, hope that in the end the calf will get the cakes mixed in its swill. I have decided to spend the morning strolling over to the cliff-edge at the bottom of the homefield to hear what the kittiwake colony has to say, that colony where everything is multiplied a million times compared with what can be read in my report. Pastor Jón reckons that one million kittiwakes live in the sea-cliffs on this stretch of coast, which the pastor's homefield touches at one point, reaching to the edge of the cliff as was said earlier. But it seems to me just as probable that one could multiply by seven the number of these white inhabitants on the black cliffs. Most of the birds are nesting now and have started laying-and excreting. The coal-black cliffs are white. Those who love the metropolitan cities of the world would doubtless call it salvation to be allowed to sit here for the rest of their lives.