Under the Glacier by Halldór Laxness

I wake up well rested.

Last night I went to bed in the belief that now my mission was concluded and that Christianity at Glacier was more or less committed to paper. The death of Prof. Dr. Godman Sýngmann was also successfully settled, and with that I had once again packed my things. It is a long time since I have slept so soundly. Estimated time of departure from here the same as before (1145 hours). It was not until I had finished shaving that I see that a slip of paper has been eased in between doorpost and door: it lies on the floor just inside the threshold. "Three o'clock at night. Dear kind Mr. Emissary. Will need the church this evening as we agreed, but didn't have the heart to wake you about it in the middle of the night. We're setting off up the glacier early at daybreak, and hope to be back by bedtime tonight with a little luggage, Jódínus and I and three World Teachers plus truck, caterpillar tractor, and jeep since my horses have probably been made into soup up north by now. Unfortunately motor engines are not conducive to the law of determinants. But now we have to get a move on because our determinanters are leaving and dry weather is forecast and good visibility on the glacier. Despite the machinery, diexelixis will conquer dysexelixis, i will conquer y, that's what we believe. Then everything will go well. The world will then become whole. And I will buy big horses, Helgi. "Aha, says the undersigned, this was only to be expected, I suppose! Or had I been so naive as to imagine that a sunny-smiling world-haggler like the parish officer from Torfhvalastaðir would ever throw in the towel? Obviously such men don't stop until diexelixis has conquered dysexelixis. Now God's House stands as it were defenceless and wide open for every crank there is, with pastor Jón traipsing about the countryside again in the discharge of the onerous duties of his office as usual.