Monetization of a nonpersonified narrator.

It was the pause of just the proper length that alerted that the radio
host was not in one of his mind-drunk on air moods.  He spoke with
deliberation, neither falling into the frightened bravado of a child
nor the ditzy wingbat dismissive arrogance of the lesser tier of
celebratries, as so often became him.  
He introduced the author, whom he obviously admired,
with grace and civility, questioning metaphors in a way one might even
call clever, such a departure from his usual dismal echo chamber.

"I'd like to ask you to read a passage from your book," he said.

"Oh, you want me to pick one out?" asked the author.

The radio host stammered, but said, "Yes, please do."

The author began flipping absent-mindedly through the host's copy of
his most recent work of fiction.  

"Don't mind my notes in the margins," said the host. 

Settling on a page, the writer said, "Ah, this is one of my
favorites. This is where Natalie realizes that she will never again
feel so much. 'The clandestine owls bore through the night as on a
winter's storm the pale shreds of moonlight.  I watched them, sitting,
through the oil covered windows reflecting the roaring fire, it
punctuating--'" Then suddenly he stopped.  "What is this?"

In the scribbled margin notes of the radio host, amidst textual
commentary on the work proper, in large distinct letters was printed
"I love you".

"You meant for me to find that," said the author.

Stammering worse, the interviewer said, "It's just a commentary on the
text.  Its not about you."

"You had me open to that page," said the author.

The host opened his mouth to speak, but before he could the writer was
on his feet.  "You make a mockery of me on your little show," said the
author, "And yourself.  You're probably mad!  Stay away from me.
An embarassment to both of us..."

The author walked out.  The host struggled to sculpt his words to
dismiss with absurdity this erratic behaviour, but found he had none.