"... in the darkened rooms, in louvered light..."

Just one sentence, about the Santa Ana winds, from page 98 of Thomas Pynchon's new novel "Inherent Vice":

In the little apartment complexes the wind entered narrowing to whistle through the stairwells and ramps and catwalks, and the leaves of the palm trees outside rattled together with a liquid sound, so that from inside, in the darkened rooms, in louvered light, it sounded like a rainstorm, the wind raging in the concrete geometry, the palms beating together like the rush of a tropical downpour, enough to get you to open the door and look outside, and of course there'd be only the same hot cloudless depth of day, no rain in sight.