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.
August 22, 2009
"... 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":
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