Chapter 73, first paragraph.

"Yes, but who will cure us from the muted fire, from the colorless fire that runs at dusk through the rue of the Huchette, going out of the rotten doorways, out of the little hallways, from the fire without image that licks the stones and lurks from the frames of doors, how will we be able to wash out his sweet burning that continues, that settles down to last allied to time and memory, to the sticky substances that hold us from this side, and that will burn us sweetly until let us calcined. So we better make a pact like cats or mosses, immediate befriend the husky voice doorkeepers, the pale and suffering creatures that stalk upon the windows playing with a dry branch. Burning like this relentlessly, bearing the central burn like the slow maturity of a fruit, be the fuel of a bonfire in this endless entanglement of stone, walk through the nights of our life with the obedience of blood throughout its blind circuit."

-Julio Cortázar, Hopscotch.