I wrote of him before, but Cortazar is always rich and lyrical:
La Maga who speaks with words:

wrapped up in what she understands which has no name, sparks and emanations which crackle in the air between two bodies or which can fill a room or a line of poetry with gold dust.

Her gold dust recalls Eliot

But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.


Dry the pool, dry concrete, brown edged,
And the pool was filled with water out of sunlight,
And the lotos rose, quietly, quietly,
The surface glittered out of heart of light,
And they were behind us, reflected in the pool.
Then a cloud passed, and the pool was empty.
Go, said the bird, for the leaves were full of children,
Hidden excitedly, containing laughter.
Go, go, go, said the bird: human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
Time past and time future
What might have been and what has been
Point to one end, which is always present.

To inhabit and dwell. To settle, quiet, rest. And then to be tossed about like wind on leaves, on feathers, on and undisturbed veneer of dust.