A Typically Perfect Pynchon Sentence

Jim Henderson. Looking north up Broadway at the Apthorp on a cloudy afternoon. 

Just one random perfect sentence from Bleeding Edge:

She squints past roofline contours, vents, skylights, water tanks and cornices under this pre-storm lighting, shining as if already wet against the darkening sky, down the street to where the cursed Deseret rears above Broadway, one or two storm-nervous lights already on, its stonework at this distance seeming too uncleansable, its shadows too many, ever to breach. (Thomas Pynchon, Bleeding Edge (Penguin 2013), p. 199)