The time is not like that of the station clocks, whose big hand discards for five minutes, but rather as one watches the tiny, in which the motion of the hands is imperceptible to the eye, or how the eye sees no grass growing, like a fine day can not be denied; time, a line composed entirely of dimensionless points (and here the unhappy and dead Naphta probably would have asked how they do not exist many dimensions to form a line), the time, say, in his own way creeping, subtle, secret, and yet hard-working, had continued to produce change.
Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
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