The Summers Interview
A Telephone Conversation with Rachel
Rachel:
Mr. Summers, thank you for taking my call.
Mr. Summers:
Of course, Rachel. Thank you for calling. I should warn you—this phone has a slight delay, and I sometimes answer questions I haven’t heard yet. It keeps things lively.
Rachel:
I’ll jump right in. What is your opinion of Harvard?
Mr. Summers:
Harvard carries gravity. History, ambition, tradition—brick buildings that seem to whisper, You’d better be worth it.
(A faint click on the line.)
I assume that was the question.
Rachel:
It was. That humility is notable. The role demands a public intellectual—someone comfortable with scrutiny, controversy, and ideas that don’t always sit quietly.
Mr. Summers:
I’m comfortable with discomfort. Institutions stagnate when certainty masquerades as wisdom. Harvard, like any large organism, needs regular reminders that it doesn’t know everything—especially when it’s convinced it does.
Rachel:
You’ve spoken before about education losing its sense of proportion.
Mr. Summers:
We’ve begun mistaking complexity for intelligence. Education should sharpen curiosity, not exhaust it. When students leave more anxious than curious, something’s gone wrong—often involving a committee and a PowerPoint.
Rachel:
Some critics argue universities now prioritize branding over truth.
Mr. Summers:
Truth doesn’t brand well. It changes too often. Branding wants permanence; truth prefers footnotes. Discomfort isn’t a flaw—it’s the tuition.
Rachel:
How do you feel about stepping into a role under intense political and cultural pressure?
Mr. Summers:
Of course it concerns me. Anyone who says otherwise is either lying or angling for a better parking space. Pressure clarifies values. When everyone’s shouting, you learn which ideas can stand quietly without amplification.
Rachel:
Supporters describe you as incisive, ironic, and occasionally—this is their word—unpredictable.
Mr. Summers:
I prefer awake. Predictability is how institutions fall asleep standing up.
(The line crackles.)
If I disappear, assume I’m being censored by my cordless phone.
Rachel:
Before we conclude, there’s one name I need to ask you about. A certain Epstein. What can you tell us about him?
Mr. Summers:
Brilliant. Intensely so. A close personal friend.
(A pause. On radio, silence is never accidental.)
Mr. Summers:
I’ve been a guest in his home many times. We’ve talked about intimate things.
Rachel:
That will raise eyebrows.
Mr. Summers:
It usually does—especially over a phone line.
Mr. Summers:
This Epstein is a retired high-school English teacher from Northern California. We talked about books, aging parents, bad knees, why commas matter, and whether anyone under forty has ever read Middlemarch voluntarily. His home smells faintly of coffee and regret. The most illicit thing there is an over-annotated paperback.
Rachel:
I’m going to call bullshit—briefly. Have you ever had a relationship with a minor?
Mr. Summers:
Yes.
(Silence. Even the phone seems to hold its breath.)
Rachel:
How old was the other person?
Mr. Summers:
Six.
Rachel:
And how old were you?
Mr. Summers:
Five.
Rachel:
And the nature of this relationship?
Mr. Summers:
We shared a sandbox. Negotiated over a shovel. Exchanged a crayon. It ended peacefully when nap time intervened.
Rachel:
So nothing improper.
Mr. Summers:
Nothing except adult language recklessly applied to childhood.
(A small click, as if the phone approves.)
Rachel:
One final question. After decades of writing and thinking, how would you define your guiding philosophy?
Mr. Summers:
Never confuse seriousness with importance—and never underestimate how quickly assumptions volunteer themselves.
Only now should I clarify something for the reader.
My name is Jaron Summers. I write humor. I think I’m funny. My wife agrees. We are both hovering around eighty, give or take a nap.
Rachel is not Rachel Maddow—though I admire her deeply. She breaks real stories. I merely bend them until they reveal their joints.
