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When you're a Viking, you never know when you're going to get the axe.

The scariest part to any story is the sliver of truth you hide in the horror. Sometimes its not about the axe wielding murder, but the fact that he's lurking somewhere in your basement. Sure, you keep telling yourself that you'll replace the burnt out light every week.

But the real interesting stuff is in the cellar and the attic.

Give me six hours to chop down a tree and I will spend the first four sharpening the axe.

In the cellars of the night, when the mind starts moving around old trunks of bad times, the pain of this and the shame of that, the memory of a small boldness is a hand to hold.

I have often wondered what it is an old building can do to you when you happen to know a little about things that went on long ago in that building.

You stand beneath the arthritic boughs of any English oak, and you survey a thousand tales.

If you go to a tree with an ax and take five whacks at the tree every day, it doesn't matter if it's an oak or a redwood; eventually the tree has to fall down.

I knew there was a story; once you find a dog with a fork through it, you know there's a story there.

I found many treasures in the woods over the years: shotgun shells, empty Colt 45 bottles, old railroad spikes, orange and black beetles eating a dead mouse, pebbles that looked just like teeth, old stone walls and cellar holes, a rusted out frying pan, the skull of a cat.