When I flew into San Francisco last Sunday, the haze shrouding the city was not the usual charming fog, and there was an acrid smell, like a barbecue on steroids. California was on fire. In the past week, towns have been burned out of existence, people have fled the raging flames, and ashes have been falling from a tangerine sky. The conflagration is airborne via the smoke, creating a “weather of catastrophe,” which is the phrase Joan Didion once used to describe the hot Santa Anas blowing into Los Angeles. “The wind shows us how close to the edge we ...
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