What Hesse is really saying is that a single afternoon spent fully absorbed—reading, loving, grieving, creating—contains more substance than months of mere clockwork existence. Most of us measure our lives like accountants, totting up years and minutes as if quantity were the point, but he's asking us to notice that some days split us open while others pass like empty rail cars. When you're truly present with a difficult conversation with someone you love, those thirty minutes weigh more than an entire week of autopilot commuting. The depth is what stays with us; the hours are just the container.