http://www.theparisreview.org/interviews/5997/the-art-of-nonfiction-no-3-john-mcphee?src=longreads

I have read  the book, “A Sense of  where you are”, an example manifest of  presence  of the author, and the effect of his presence, his voice, totally in view to the reader, while his personality remaining indistinct. Here is an excerpt of it, where McPhee,  in a brief scene , that he wrote in book-lengthy   profile of the famous   baseball player Bill Bradley, that is,  before the star became senator. McPhee is watching The Star practice , and then Bradley misses a shot: …the ball curled around the rim and failed to go in…

"What happened then?" I asked him.                                                                                                                  " I didn't kick high enough," he said.                                                                                                               
 "Do you   always  know exactly why you've missed a shot?"                                                                       " Yes," he said, ...missing another one.                                                                                                                    "What happened that time?"                                                                                                                               "I was talking to you. I didn't concentrate. The secrecy of shooting is concentration."

Mr. McPhee wrote it in the first person, in a casual and natural tone, to make the reader see it in the characteristically  way he wrote the story, he wanted the reader to be present,  not as sitting back only but like a confident, some sort.

Encounters with the Archdruid“_John McPhee’s, another book, l have read lately_I never get tired of reading those excerpts of the author encounters, and interviews_also; it  shows a pattern of extreme complexity, the way it was written, and, with more explicitly,  in a passage where he concluded, after a peripheral itinerary, back and forth, like flash-back with different sittings, between the past and the present:
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2013/01/14/130114fa_fact_mcphee?currentPage=all
The story is told in three parts, initially, it is an extended profile of the most prominent personalities of that time, between the different antagonists of the story,  dam builder, environmentalists, and people who represent the forces  of environment destruction, that is to draw them  in to a debate, where the writer  was a pursuit for of a series interviews through different, places and times, until the moment, it took place in a raft trip down the Colorado River. Then the writer takes the reader in aparte _ when he pull aside, in a confidence, a confessional tone, to tell him: after he took the initiative, to embark you  in a journey, of less than few minutes where you got almost wet: the high-speed of the river, with the slow motion of the raft:

What seemed  unimaginable beside the river in the canyon was that all that wild water had been processed , like pork slurry in a hot-dog plant, upstream in the lightless penstock of a dam.

The  last I discovered is this article below: see  link

“At one point I said, Mr. Shawn, you have this whole enterprise going, a magazine is printing this weekend, and you’re the editor of it, and you sit here talking about these commas and semicolons with me—how can you possibly do it?”

I stay speechless, as if I was standing , in the presence of  the writer  in person , when you hear  his voice through reading the books, and finally this item above.

Modestly speaking, did you hear me? when I say:

” thank you for reading”

Soul-of-my guitar

I learnt from thee, passer-by
To recite yours of Poetry
Those verses, I made them a song,
Poems, like leaves fallen from a tree,

A tide, rolling away on the street
The passing of Autumn, dyeing his body_
A girl with a tattoo, paint’d on a dragonfly
Drift away, walking a dog at her feet.

Mid-haiku, and half-quatrain,
Be it a sunny day or it rain
Night and day, Time flies
A Daydream, tell me where it lays

I, like a cicada, had
It sung all day long
Resting on a limb of a tree
Passer-by, sing with me

may I sing it the summer along
Sway with me, Stay with me
That’s for, O you passer-by,
Make a Bow with your hat

At Mid-day or rush-hour
Take the A or the Q-trains,
stopping by,  for a second,
At thirty-fourth or forty-second
The street, I make home our
Be it snow or it rains

Oh! How foolish, thou arth
You throw, dimes and dollars,
on the ground at my feet,
while the soul of my guitar
Burns low like cigar
Makes your hearth, beat
In a kvel of delight

I don’t need the spotlights
I don’t need the limelight
I don’t need all the above
All I need is love

Can’t you see me,
that I am bleeding
Can’t you see me
That I am weeping

It’s here, it’s deep
In my insides-within
Still my guitar gently weeps

Can’t you see those, at noon
My tears like diamonds,
It’s like on a starry night.
Rise your eyes, as you might

can you see the moon
Reflecting its eye in it
The offing, or a ship at sea,
Tequila at sunrise
Sorry, I drink Poesie

Ô you Time Passer-by
Whisper my song to the ears of the wind,
It’s like a dream,
ice cream in a gleam

It will rest
on a dream-catcher’s net
A dandelion On a stay
A fleeting wisp, at ease

So, will you please
Gimme back my dream,
And take with you, yours
I need my hearth to rest
Take me home

Take me home, it’s enough for me,
Of all the broken roads, and tour
Ends of the World I roam troubadour
Finally A shore  to hug,
a safe harbor that’s all I need
To rest my bones, on a dock of the bay at last.

Take me to the mountain,
A water, to drink from a fountain
Take me to the river
I would like to see my face in it,
Once more with my eyes
If the river is still a river
Still Running thought it,
If the mountain still, a mountain
The Ozarks to climb it
To see the southern stars in the sky,
Orion, Betelgeuse, and Rigel,
An old wish I hold to quell,
The Milky way, At my eye
the sky is the limit, I can tell
I’m sailing Anyway

So, O you passer-by
Passing Time Square
Look what they have done to my song.
Take it from my tongue,
Look where it lays,
At Broadway
They ditch it