A description of our fair city told from the perspective of Frank Lloyd Wright’s morphine-addicted mistress in T.C. Boyle’s The Women (which is just as great as all the reviews have said):

Outside, beyond the gray frame of the window, the weather was dreary, funeral clouds strung from the rooftops like laundry hung out to dry, and so cold even the ratlike dirty gray pigeons were huddled against it, dark  motionless lines of frozen feathers and arrested beaks blighting the eaves as far as she could see down both sides of the block. She hadn’t been out of the house in two days, hadn’t been out of her wrapper, because this cold was like some sort of cosmic joke, a cold beyond anything Paris had seen since the glaciers withdrew in some unfathomable prehistoric epoch when people still went round dwelling caves in Chicago. How could anyone possibly live here?

Happy Spring, everyone.