The hot, dry Santa Ana wind, trailing wildfires in its wake, affected "the entire quality of life in Los Angeles", accentuating "its impermanence, its unreliability".
According to Didion, Santa Ana showed Angelenos "how close to the edge [they] were."
Los Angeles' wildfires are making it clear to the whole world how close to the edge it now stands.
In 2024, an increase of 1.5C above the pre-industrial era's average temperature was confirmed by climate scientists.
That figure represents a catastrophic, an apocalyptic, failure of global political will.
Warmer air holds more moisture, so when it rains, it rains harder and for longer.
Californians experienced this directly when, for two years in a row, the state's rain gauges registered an appreciable increase in precipitation.
What that produced was a sudden spurt in plant growth on the state's mountainsides and hillsides and in its canyons. This was especially true of the mountains, hills and canyons to the east of Los Angeles.
After two wet years, however, California went dry.
All that vigorous vegetative growth became tinder, just waiting for a spark.
Did the leaders of California realise the danger? Did the city and county governments of Los Angeles comprehend the risk?
Of course they did. It's not as if wildfires are unknown in the Hollywood Hills.
It's just that the people in charge were convinced that California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection (CalFire) and its firefighters could handle anything Santa Ana sent them.
CalFire's veterans weren't so sure.
Over their long careers they had been able to count on nightfall bringing a slackening in wildfire ferocity.
A respite that allowed them to rest and regroup their forces.
But in recent years, they had detected an ominous change. Sunset now brought no respite.
Wildfires burned as fiercely in darkness as in daylight, making them much harder to contain.
If Santa Ana blew long and strong, then Los Angeles would be in peril.
The defining characteristic of modern politicians is that they invariably plan on events unfolding as expected. Until they occur, deviations from the norm are routinely dismissed as unlikely.
Politicians reflexively hope for the best until the worst happens, by which time, of course, it is much too late.
California and Los Angeles should have been prepared.
They should have taken precautions: kept the reservoirs topped-up for the helicopters' monsoon buckets; made sure there was full pressure in the suburban fire hydrants; provided the firefighters with new recruits and state-of-the-art equipment; compelled the power companies to mitigate the risk of their powerlines arcing in the middle of tinder-dry forest and brushland.
But in California, and everywhere else on planet Earth, preparation, precaution and mitigation cost money, lots of money.
They require higher taxes, stricter regulations, long-term planning: all those measures that politicians, along with the people who elect them, prefer to minimise, delay or avoid altogether. We trust to luck there will be no day of reckoning, until the day arrives.
The veteran firefighters of California and Los Angeles called it "a perfect storm".
The hillsides and canyons were full of "fuel".
The LA Fire Department was underfunded, below-strength and inadequately equipped. A key reservoir was empty, leaving fire-hydrants without the water pressure needed for fire hoses. The power companies had successfully delayed mitigating the risk their powerlines posed.
And Santa Ana was not herself. This year, she blew longer and stronger than anyone could remember, as if the gates of Hell itself had been thrown open.
Embers raced ahead of the fire-front by up to two miles, igniting rooftops and turning trees into flaming torches.
CalFire's helicopters could not be sent aloft. Fire hydrants proved useless. The highways were choked with the cars of fleeing residents. Whole blocks were reduced to ash.
Didion's "weather of catastrophe, of apocalypse" had descended, and Los Angeles was burning.
Hoping for the best is not a strategy. Not for our political leaders, not for us. We are all standing perilously close to the edge.
Chris Trotter is an Auckland writer and commentator.
