The word I'd used to describe Francesca Lia Block's prose is lush. For this reason, her stories are ripe with setting; every sense is attended to with intricate detail. This is not to say that Block dwells in mundane descriptions; her intention seems to be to draw the reader into her character's surroundings.
For the most part, it works beautifully, even though Block tends to do what I do and drags out a single sentence with a plethora of commas and adjectives:
She lost one of the glass slippers - shine, fire, bright of her making like a dropped word lost, like a word, the missing word to make the story right again, to make it complete.
There are times, however, when Block does tumble into purple prose territory:
Fires like dragon's breath consumed the poppies and lupine, the jacaranda trees that once flowered purple in sudden overnight bursts of exuberance as if startled at their own capacity for gorgeousness.
Still, purple prose and abundance of adjectives aside, Block has the ability to create dreamy, haunting, almost feverish stories, and for that, I recommend this book to just about anyone.