Kafka on the Shore

by Haruki Murakami

“What does it matter what it’s called?” she continues. “You’ve got your restrooms and your food. Your fluorescent lights and your plastic chairs. Crappy coffee. Strawberry-jam sandwiches. It’s all pointless—assuming you try to find a point to it. We’re coming from somewhere, heading somewhere else. That’s all you need to know, right?” I nod. And nod. And nod.