Apparently this is a line from Huxley's book Crome Yellow. This appears to be a reference (although without more context it is not at all clear whether this is being done seriously, or for humorous effect) to Chapter 8 of St. Paul's Epistle to the Romans, and in particular verses 23 and 26.
It is in the book Crome Yellow by Aldous Huxley. A part talking about a frustrated author who feels sorry or disappointed with himself for not spending the hours in the train trying to achieve a perfect work.
The whole excerpt goes like this:
Oh, this journey! It was two hours cut clean out of his life; two hours in which he might have done so much, so much—written the perfect poem, for example, or read the one illuminating book. Instead of which—his gorge rose at the smell of the dusty cushions against which he was leaning.
Two hours. One hundred and twenty minutes. Anything might be done in that time. Anything. Nothing. Oh, he had had hundreds of hours, and what had he done with them? Wasted them, spilt the precious minutes as though his reservoir were inexhaustible. Denis groaned in the spirit, condemned himself utterly with all his works.