It was apparent to those around him that he was a genius. But true to stereotype, he was an absent-minded genius.

“He was always rumpled—a bit the scatterbrained professor,” says Brian A. Jacob ’92, a student from the class.

Summers would rush into class with a fistful of notes. He liked to launch into lecture immediately, becoming a veritable whirlwind of engaging explanations, examples and hypotheticals. Halfway through class, his shirttails would begin to peek out. By the time he was done, they had usually untucked themselves completely.

The CUE guide, for what it’s worth, confirms a very positive picture of Summers the teacher. On a five-point scale, both Summers and his class scored a 4.2. “Respondents congratulated Professor Lawrence H. Summers on the overall excellence of his lectures. However, one-fourth note that he occasionally speaks too quickly, and a few wish that he would prepare handouts of the most important material... Respondents... overwhelmingly support Economics 1410 as an informative and stimulating course,” the comment reads.

But the quality of the professors lecturing students has never been the primary concern with undergraduate education. Harvard’s constellation of academic stars do a good job teaching bright students. A greater focal point for criticism has been advising and intimate student-faculty contact, or rather, the lack thereof.

But beyond his contributions at the front of a lecture hall, friends say Summers’ biggest strength was the mentor-style relationships he formed with students at every stage of his career. The search committee was looking for someone to force greater student-faculty contact, and who better than the archetypal mentor himself? The puzzle pieces start to fall into place.

On the one hand, Summers understands the mentor relationship from the side of the protegé. Summers has been guided by his own series of teachers, colleagues and bosses—among them a seventh grade history teacher, economics professor Martin S. Feldstein ’61 and Secretary of the Treasury Robert E. Rubin ’60.