Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

Pastor Jón Prímus: It's perhaps too much to say that she was my wife, Mundi. Who owns a woman like Úa? Who owns the flower of the field? Dr. Godman Sýngmann stood in the light from the window looking at the sheep, almost darkening the room with those broad shoulders in that enormous wind-cheater: It's said that the man who first compared a woman to a flower must have been a genius. The next one who parroted it was undoubtedly an ass. What are we to call the man who utters it a third time? A rascal, replied pastor Jón Prímus, and shall undertake to be all three at once. But I hope it does not change the psalmist's words in any way. Has it never occurred to you to think kindly of God for having created the lilies of the field? Dr. Sýngmann: Flowers? No. I am God-fearing in the fullest sense of the word. I have always been afraid of God. I have been so afraid of Him that no saint in the Middle Ages was ever more afraid of the devil. Terrible is the God who created a woman like Úa. When she had been in charge for three years of a brothel I owned in South America, I sent her to a convent. Next time I met her she had become the mother of many children in North America, separated from the men and the children dead.

Pastor Jón Prímus: Mundi, you who are so good at reading and writing books, there's one story you ought to read; I've always thought it such a good one. It is the story of the dandelion and the honeybee. May I tell it to you? Dr. Godman Sýngmann turned round and stared at his old friend the parish pastor in amazement with those moist eyes of his with their worn red rims, at once accusing and beseeching, sorrowful and honest, humble and fierce, like the eyes of a bloodhound, that dog which bears such a dreadful name yet is nonetheless the most harmless of dogs.