For Comparative Literature, I've been reading Swann's Way by Marcel Proust which is part of a series called In Search of Lost Time. An interesting quote I found was:
“And as each hour struck, it would seem to me that a few moments only had passed since the hour before; the latest would inscribe itself close to its predecessor on the sky’s surface, and I was unable to believe that sixty minutes could have been squeezed into the tiny arc of blue which was comprised between their two golden figures. Sometimes it would even happen that this precocious hour would sound two strokes more than the last; there must then have been an hour which I had not heard strike; something that had taken place had not taken place for me;"Chew on this: Perhaps time isn't really a dimension itself but rather something that our mind had created to string memories together. Without memories, would time exist?
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