"I tried to describe impossible things like the scent of creosote-bitter, slightly resinous, but still pleasant-the high, keening sound of the cicadas in July, the feathery barrenness of the trees, the very size of the sky, extending white-blue from horizon to horizon, barely interrupted by the low mountains covered with purple volcanic rock. The hardest thing to explain was why it was so beautiful to me-to justify a beauty that didn't depend on the sparse, spiny vegetation that often looked half dead, a beauty that had more to do with the exposed shape of the land, with the shallow bowls of valleys between the craggy hills, and the way they held on to the sun."
Description of this place, tells the reader that the describer, greatly misses somewhere, because she gives so much detail. She tells of the most memorable familiarities she can, because she's not only trying to picture them, but also because she doesn't want to lose those memories. Being in a new place, often heightens the senses to old and loved things, one is deprived of. Here, Bella, is deprived of the sun, and her childhood memories of her Phoenix home, of which she dearly loves and misses.
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