The Mind(mīnd) of John McPhee

The Mind(mīnd) of John McPhee

A deeply private(ˈprīvit) writer reveals(riˈvēl) his obsessive(əbˈsesiv) process(prəˈses,ˈpräsəs,ˈpräˌses,ˈprō-).

BY SAM(sam) ANDERSON(ˈandərsən)

When you call John McPhee on the phone, he is instantly(ˈinstəntlē) John McPhee. McPhee is now 86 years old, and each of those years seems to be filed(fīld) away inside of him, loaded(ˈlōdid) with information, ready to access(ˈakˌses). I was calling(ˈkôliNG) to arrange(əˈrānj) a visit(ˈvizit) to Princeton(ˈprinstən), N.J., where McPhee lives(liv,līv) and teaches writing(ˈrītiNG). He was going to give me driving(ˈdrīviNG) directions. He asked where I was coming from. I told him the name of my town, about 100 miles(mīl) away.

“I’ve been there,” McPhee said, with the mild(mīld) surprise of someone who has just found a $5 bill(bil) in a coat pocket. He proceeded(prō-,prəˈsēd) to tell me a story of the time he had a picnic(ˈpikˌnik) at the top of our local mountain(ˈmountn), with a small party that included the wife of Alger Hiss, the former United States official(əˈfiSHəl) who, at the height(hīt) of McCarthyism(məˈkärTHēˌizəm), was disgraced(disˈgrāst) by allegations(ˌaliˈgāSHən) of spying(spī) for the Russians(ˈrəSHən). The picnic party rode(rōd) to the top, McPhee said, on the incline railway, an old-timey(ˈōld ˈtīmē) conveyance(kənˈvāəns) that has been out of operation for nearly 40 years, and which now marks the landscape(ˈlan(d)ˌskāp) only as a ruin(ˈro͞oin): abandoned(əˈbandənd) tracks(trak) running up a scar(skär) on the mountain’s face, giant(ˈjīənt) gears(gi(ə)r) rusting(rəst) in the old powerhouse at the top. Hikers stop and gawk(gôk) and wonder(ˈwəndər) what the thing was like.

“It was amazing(əˈmāziNG),” McPhee said. “A railroad created by the Otis Elevator(ˈeləˌvātər) Company(ˈkəmpənē). An incline of 60-something percent.”

Then he started giving me directions — 87, 287, Route 1 — until eventually(iˈvenCHo͞oəlē) I admitted(ədˈmit) that I was probably just going to follow(ˈfälō) the directions on my phone. McPhee kept going for a few seconds, suggesting another road or two, but finally he gave up.

“Well,” he said. “The machine(məˈSHēn) will be telling you what to do.”