In Los Angeles, we live with fire. There is even a season—fire season, which does not end until the rains come. This winter, the rains have not come. What has come is fire. And Angelenos have been caught off guard, myself included.

Tuesday mid-morning, a windstorm hit L.A. In the Palisades, a neighborhood in the Santa Monica Mountains that overlooks the Pacific Ocean, a blaze broke out. Over the past two days, it has burned more than 17,234 acres and destroyed at least 1,000 structures. The Palisades Fire will almost certainly end up being the most expensive in California history. It is currently not at all contained.

By Tuesday night, another fire had sparked—this time in the San Gabriel Mountains, near Altadena, where winds had been clocked at 100 miles an hour and sent embers flying miles deep into residential and commercial stretches of the city. By mid-morning yesterday, the Eaton Fire had consumed 1,000 structures and more than 10,600 acres. It, too, is zero percent contained. Together, the fires have taken at least five lives.

Last night, just before 6 p.m., another fire erupted in Runyon Canyon, in the Hollywood Hills. Like the Palisades and Eaton Fires, the Sunset Fire seems to have first broken out in the dry chaparral scrub whipped by the roaring winds. The hillside there is particularly dense with homes, and the neighborhood is jammed up against the even denser, urban L.A., where apartment buildings quickly give way to commercial blocks. One of this city’s many charms is its easy access to nature, but nature is also the cause of its current apocalypse.

Living through these fires, I’ve struggled to understand the scale of the event; to see the threat for what it is and respond appropriately. My family lives in Eagle Rock, a neighborhood 20 miles from the Palisades with a whole mountain range in between. On Tuesday, while driving on the freeway, I saw the colossal thunderhead of gray smoke of the Palisades Fire erupting from the Santa Monica Mountains and decided: This is fine. I finished my errand. I went on with my day.

When I got home, I turned on KTLA, which was broadcasting live from Palisades Drive, where dozens of cars, trapped in evacuation traffic, had been abandoned by their fleeing owners. A man ran up to the reporter, removed his face mask, and spoke into the microphone. Looking directly at the camera, he implored viewers to leave their keys in their car if they were going to flee, so that the fire crews could get to the fire unimpeded. The guy looked familiar. The reporter asked him to identify himself. It was Steve Guttenberg. Mahoney from Police Academy! Only in L.A.

The wind was making a constant low, terrible moan through the trees. Every few minutes, a violent gust would blast through and rattle the house. That afternoon, I went to pick up my kids, who had been kept inside their school all day. At home, I let them run around outside, but everyone’s eyes got itchy. There was so much dust in the air. Still, the only fire I knew of was all the way across town, so I went out again that evening to see a movie.  

At intermission, a friend returned from the restroom and told me that my wife had been trying to reach me. I turned my phone off airplane mode and called her; when she picked up, she told me a neighbor had just knocked on our door to tell her that a brush fire was burning nearby. It was close, she said. How close? I asked.

Across the street, she said. Like, can you see it? From our house? She said no. I’m coming home, I told her.

Driving back, I saw a huge, glowing gash in the San Gabriel Mountains—the Eaton Fire. I thought about what needed to happen when I got home: the go bags we should pack, the box of birth certificates and Social Security cards. A photo album or two. I’d park the car facing out, for a quicker exit. I’d move some potentially long-burning objects (trash cans) as far from the house as possible.

I knew what to do. I knew the procedure. I’d reported on fires before. Hell, the home I’d grown up in was nearly burned down by wildfires twice in 2017, and my aunt and uncle had lost their home in Santa Rosa that same year. I’d interviewed firefighters about days just like this one—when the Santa Anas howl and it hasn’t rained for eight months or longer, the chaparral is a tinderbox, and fires begin popping up everywhere.

And yet, I hadn’t thought that it could happen down the street. I hadn’t considered that it could happen to me and my family.

[Read: ‘I’ve never seen anything like this’]

I arrived home just after 9 p.m. First neighbors with hoses, then the fire department, had doused the blaze nearby. I worked through my checklist, packed the kids a bag of clothes, then my wife and I packed small bags of our own. A thought nagged at me: All day, I’d been looking at fire—why hadn’t I seen the immediacy of the threat? I pulled out a book called Thinking in an Emergency, by Elaine Scarry, which I find extremely calming in intense moments because it presents an extended argument for the benefits of thought and practice during emergency situations. “CPR is knowable; one can learn it if one chooses,” Scarry writes. “But one cannot know who will one day be the recipient of that embodied knowledge … It is available to every person whose path crosses one’s own.”

What we do during emergencies, when the habits of the everyday (getting out of your car, keys in hand) come face-to-face with the extraordinary (a fire by the side of the road), requires extraordinary thinking. And we would be wise to insert these acts of thinking into our everyday habits. We perform a version of this constantly: We call it “deliberation.” Mostly, we spend very little time between deliberation and action. But emergency-style deliberation is difficult, because true emergencies are rare. It is hard for us to conceive of them happening until they are.

The drivers who locked their car doors and left with their keys were not thinking within the framework of the fire as a threat. A fire doesn’t steal one’s car; it burns it down. I had been no different in my thinking that day. Maybe I was worse: I had the knowledge of what to do in a fire, but I hadn’t even considered the realistic possibility that the fire presented a threat to my family.

I spent most of Tuesday night awake. The wind remained terrible. The smell of smoke began to fill the house. I rolled up towels and stuck them at the foot of the doors. Yesterday morning, just after 7 a.m., our phones buzzed with an alert: an evacuation warning for our corner of the neighborhood and much of nearby Pasadena. We hustled our kids through breakfast, packed up, and got out. Our going was optional, but at least 100,000 other Angelenos are under mandatory evacuation, a number that is surely growing higher as all of these fires continue to burn.

We left with the little we’d packed in our go bags, which was clarifying. I felt a weight lift. This was everything that truly mattered. Rereading Scarry had reminded me: I did not learn to perform CPR until I was about to be a father, until the possibility of having to perform it seemed a bit more real. I still, thankfully, have never had to. But will I retrain myself? Should I be practicing? We motored on through traffic. After a while, the smoke began to clear, just enough to see patches of sky. I will schedule that CPR retraining, I thought. That’s something I should do. When we can get home and catch our breath.

Destructive wildfires erupted in several places in Los Angeles yesterday, driven by extreme winds and dry conditions. The Palisades Fire grew quickly, tearing across hillsides and through the Los Angeles neighborhood of Pacific Palisades, burning many structures and sending thick plumes of smoke into the air. Tens of thousands of residents were forced to evacuate in often-chaotic circumstances. Firefighters and volunteers battled many blazes overnight, as residents braced for increasing winds forecast for the next few days.

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When wildfires began ravaging Los Angeles yesterday, the story was familiar in many respects: In dry and windy weather, a small blaze can spread so fast and so far that no one can do anything to stop it, especially in terrain dense with brush and hard for firefighters to reach.

Pacific Palisades, where the first fire began, is such a neighborhood; its roughly 24 square miles are beside rugged wilderness. The roads are winding. Homes are built on parts of a mountain range and in six major canyons. A fire-hazard map proposed by the California Department of Forestry and Fire Protection in 2022 described the area as “very high” risk—the highest possible categorization. And it has burned before, most significantly in November 1961, during a historic blaze.

Yet for all their predictability, these blazes are also outliers. Among people I spoke with who have observed Southern California wildfires for decades, several felt that these fires are unusually dramatic and dreadful, and have more potential than most to alter regional politics.

[Conor Friedersdorf: The Southern California wildfire paradox]

First, consider the warnings that preceded the fires. On Monday, the National Weather Service alerted Southern Californians to an imminent “LIFE-THREATENING, DESTRUCTIVE, Widespread Windstorm,” language far stronger than warnings typically given just before the Santa Ana winds begin to blow, rushing down through mountain passes and canyons to sea level, heating up and drying out along the way.

Yesterday, hours before any fire began, Los Angeles Times subscribers woke up to this front-page headline “Unusually Strong Winds Carry High Risk of Winter Fires.” It warned of gusts up to 100 miles per hour and quoted a fire official describing the danger to the region as “extreme.” The prediction could hardly have been more emphatic.

Sure enough, by lunchtime, a fire hadn’t just ignited in Pacific Palisades, threatening the Getty Villa––it had spread out of control in a visually spectacular manner. Twenty miles away, people could walk onto the beach, look north along an unobstructed coastline, and see a plume of smoke behind the Santa Monica pier. It billowed out over the bay for miles. By evening and especially after nightfall, people could see flames seeming to engulf the hillsides north of Santa Monica. A blockbuster using CGI to convey “L.A. in flames” would not have been more dramatic.

Footage shot within Pacific Palisades itself was just as shocking. News crews and residents recorded terrifying scenes amid architecturally striking custom-built homes.

Many owners of Palisades real estate are unusually wealthy and influential. And that brings us to the politics of the blaze. The real-estate developer Rick Caruso, who owns a shopping center in the neighborhood, alleged on a local news channel that fire hydrants didn’t have enough water to supply firefighters with what they needed. He said that someone should ask Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass, whom he ran against in the most recent mayoral election, what went wrong.

The entrepreneur Wes Nichols, who has lived in the neighborhood for 26 years, evacuated sometime after dark. He posted on social media that he personally saw more than 100 homes engulfed in flames, adding, “I’m mad at what I saw. Our politicians have failed us. Unprepared, unimaginative, understaffed, now overwhelmed. Heads must roll for this disaster.”

[Read: The wildfire risk in America’s front yards]

Bass wasn’t able to represent herself to the public or answer her critics because when the fire began, she was in Ghana, attending the inauguration of its president.

Things may only get worse from here. The Palisades Fire, having already spread at least to Malibu, destroying homes and businesses, now threatens Santa Monica and beyond––that is to say, it could still spread from the edges of greater Los Angeles to a swath of its dense core. Weather is the biggest factor in the city’s fate.

Strong, gusty winds are forecast to continue in much of the region throughout the day today. Wind is howling outside my window an hour south, in Orange County. And for many miles in every direction, a new catastrophic fire could start at any moment. I’ve lived through 45 years of Southern California wildfires. I can’t recall having as much uncertainty about how not just one community but the region as a whole will fare in the next 24 hours.

As Santa Ana winds whipped sheets of embers over the Pacific Coast Highway in Southern California last night, the palm trees along the beach in the Pacific Palisades ignited like torches scaled for gods. The high school was burning. Soon, the grounds around the Getty Villa were too. The climate scientist Daniel Swain went live on his YouTube channel, warning that this fire would get worse before it got better. The winds, already screaming, would speed up. Tens of thousands of people were fleeing as he spoke. Sunset Boulevard was backed up; ash rained down on drivers as they exited their cars to escape on foot. A bulldozer parted the sea of abandoned cars to let emergency vehicles pass.

The hills were ready to burn. It’s January, well past the time of year when fire season in Southern California is supposed to end. But in this part of the semi-arid chaparral called Los Angeles, fire season can now be any time.

Drought had begun to bear down by the time the fires started. A wetter season is supposed to begin around October, but no meaningful amount of rain has fallen since May. Then came a record-breaking hot summer. The land was now drier than in almost any year since recordkeeping began. Grasses and sagebrush that had previously greened in spring rains dried to a crisp and stayed that way, a perfect buffet of fuel for a blaze to feast on. As The Atlantic wrote last summer, California’s fire luck of the past two years had run out. “You’d have to go to the late 1800s to see this dry of a start to the rainy season,” Glen MacDonald, a geography professor at UCLA, told me.

Then the colder months brought the Santa Ana winds: stuff of legend, the strong downslope gusts that suck humidity out of the air, if there was any to begin with. This time, the winds were stronger than average, too. A parched landscape; crisp-dried vegetation; strong, hot winds: “The gun was loaded,” MacDonald said. And it was pointed at Pacific Palisades.

MacDonald studies climate change and wildfires, and he has published a paper with colleagues projecting that the wildfire season in Southern California would, on average, start earlier and last longer in the future, thanks to human-driven climate warming. The lengthier the season, the greater the probability that a fire-weather day would overlap with a Santa Ana–wind day, or a day when someone happened to ignite a fire—more than 90 percent of fires in Southern California are sparked by human activity, he said.

Last night, he watched an example of his work unfold in real time. He could see smoke rising off the Palisades Fire from his house in Thousand Oaks. He had important documents in bags, just in case he and his family had to evacuate. In a dry year, he told me, the concept of fire season no longer applied in Southern California: “You can have a fire any month of the year.”

This morning, a second and third major fire are pressing toward more suburban zones where people are now evacuating. The Los Angeles mayor has told the city to brace for more. Altogether, more than 5,000 acres have burned already, and an unknown number of structures along with them. Schools are closing this morning, and Los Angeles health officials warned of unhealthy air, directing people to wear masks outdoors and keep windows closed as smoke and soot blanketed some parts of the city.

As he watched the smoke, MacDonald said he had colleagues at the university who lived in the active fire zone. He hoped they were all right; he texted them, knowing that they may not respond for a while. He’d evacuated from the Woolsey Fire in 2018, which burned nearly 100,000 acres and destroyed some 1,600 buildings, including some of his neighbors’ homes. I asked what it was like to study the future of fire in California while living it. “It makes the work more immediate,” he said. “It gives you a sense of unease. As the summer ends and you know you’re dried out, you look around you at things you own, and you think, This could just be ashes.”

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Americans are spending more and more time alone. Some are lonely. But many people—young men in particular—are actively choosing to spend much of their time in isolation, in front of screens. That proclivity is having a profound effect on individual well-being and on American’s “civic and psychic identity,” my colleague Derek Thompson writes in our new cover story. I spoke with Derek about what he calls our anti-social century.

Lora Kelley: The pandemic was obviously very disruptive to people’s social lives. How much is it to blame for this trend toward aloneness?

Derek Thompson: I never would have written this story if the data showed that Americans were hanging out and socializing more and more with every passing year and decade—until the pandemic happened, and we went inside of our homes, and now we’re just slowly getting back out. That’s not a story about America. That’s a story about a health emergency causing people to retreat from the physical world.

The anti-social century is the opposite of that story. Every single demographic of Americans now spends significantly less time socializing than they did at the beginning of the 21st century, when some people already thought we were in a socializing crisis. Overall, Americans spend about 20 percent less time socializing than they did at the beginning of the century. For teenagers and for young Black men, it’s closer to 40 percent less time. This trend seems, by some accounts, to have accelerated during the pandemic. But as one economist pointed out to me, we were more alone in 2023 than we were in 2021.

Lora: We’ve talked a bit about shifts in isolation for young people. Where do older Americans fit into this? Are we seeing similar dynamics play out for that cohort?

Derek: Aloneness is rising across the board—for every age group and for every ethnicity and for every type of education—but it’s rising slower for old people and faster for young people.

Older people have always spent more time alone than young people. They don’t go to school from 8 a.m. to 3 p.m.; they’re not legally forced to be around people the same way that many young people are. They aren’t in college, and they are often unemployed, so they aren’t in offices.

The solitude inequality that used to exist between different age groups—where old people were very alone, and young people were very social—is shrinking. You could say young people are acting more like old people.

Lora: What would you say to someone who thinks: Well, what’s wrong with spending time alone? If people are doing what they want to do, and pursuing their idea of a good life, why not spend more time in the house?

Derek: I don’t want this article to be a criticism of introversion, and I certainly don’t want this article to be a criticism of quiet. I myself am somewhat introverted and love a bit of quiet time. But what’s happening in America today is not a healthy trend of people simply spending more time being happy by themselves. Many researchers who looked at the rise of alone time have come to the conclusion that Americans self-report less satisfaction when they spend lots of time alone or in their house.

I think a certain amount of alone time is not only acceptable; it’s absolutely essential. But as with any therapeutic, the dosage matters, and people who spend a little bit of time taking moments by themselves, meditating, or decompressing are very different from people who are spending more hours, year after year, isolated.

Lora: To what extent is the rise of isolated lifestyles an individual issue—one that’s concerning because it’s making people sadder—versus a civic issue that’s causing a shift in American politics?

Derek: This pullback from public life started with technology, with cars and television, and ultimately smartphones, allowing Americans to privatize their leisure. But I absolutely think it’s becoming a political story.

I think we don’t understand one another for a reason that’s mathematical, almost tautological: Americans understand Americans less because we see Americans less. More and more, the way we confront people we don’t know is on social media, and we present an entirely different face online—one that tends to be more extreme and more negative and more hateful of the “out” group. I don’t think there should be any confusion about why an anti-social century has coincided with a polarized century.

Lora: You write in your article that “nothing has proved as adept at inscribing ritual into our calendars as faith.” How do you think about the way that so many Americans use technology—things like phone reminders and calendar tools and self-improvement apps—to inscribe rituals into their personal routines?

Derek: We haven’t just privatized leisure. We’ve privatized ritual. Modern rituals are more likely to bind us to ourselves than to other people: Meditate at this time alone. Remember to work out alone, or around other people with noise-canceling headphones.

It’s profoundly ironic that a lot of people are optimizing themselves toward solitude. The anti-social century is about accretion. It’s about many small decisions that we make minute to minute and hour to hour in our life, leading to a massive national trend of steadily rising overall aloneness.

Related:

February cover story: The anti-social century Why Americans suddenly stopped hanging out

Here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

How Hitler dismantled a democracy in 53 days Stop the (North Carolina) steal. Mark Zuckerberg wants to be Elon Musk.

Wildfires are ravaging Southern California, scorching thousands of acres and forcing more than 70,000 people to evacuate. Below is a collection of our writers’ latest reporting on the fires:

The particular horror of the Los Angeles wildfires The Palisades were waiting to burn. Photos: The Palisades Fire scorches parts of Los Angeles.

Today’s News

Federal prosecutors said they plan on releasing the part of Special Counsel Jack Smith’s report that details Donald Trump’s election-interference case if the court order blocking them is lifted. German Chancellor Olaf Scholz and French Foreign Minister Jean-Noël Barrot warned Trump against taking over Greenland, Denmark’s autonomous territory. Trump asked the Supreme Court to halt the sentencing hearing in his New York criminal hush-money case, which is scheduled to take place on Friday.

Evening Read

Illustration by The Atlantic. Sources: BFA / Alamy; Roadside Attractions / Everett Collection; Pablo Larraín / Netflix.

The Film That Rips the Hollywood Comeback Narrative Apart

By Shirley Li

[Demi Moore’s] fame, when contrasted with some of her forgettable films—The Butcher’s Wife, The Scarlet Letter—turned her into an easy punch line. As the New Yorker critic Anthony Lane sneered at the start of his review of the latter: “What is the point of Demi Moore?”

Look at Moore now.

Read the full article.

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Stephanie Bai contributed to this newsletter.

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