Erskine’s voice was as gentle as that of a truly caring grief counselor, his expression as kindly as that of a fairy godmother in a Disney cartoon. “Wallace and I believe that if you want to build something better, you must first burn down everything that exists.” My fiancée smiled with tender malice. “Just give me the matches.” Putting us through the perverse equivalent of an ethics exam, Erskine said, “History is the enemy of the future.” Bridget called him and raised him one: “The past is a cancer that kills all dreams of progress.” “Power is beauty, beauty power.” Lifting her chin and
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