Sweet Bean Paste by Durian Sukegawa

There’s something profoundly moving about the way a simple confection can bring people together. In Durian Sukegawa’s “Sweet Bean Paste,” the humble dorayaki – a pancake filled with sweet red bean paste – becomes a vehicle for healing, friendship, and confronting societal prejudices. This gentle, bittersweet novel serves up a tale as delicate and satisfying as its namesake treat, leaving the reader with a lingering sweetness long after the final page.

A Reluctant Shopkeeper and an Unlikely Mentor

At the heart of “Sweet Bean Paste” is Sentaro, a man adrift. He’s not exactly living – more like existing, really. Saddled with a criminal record and crushed dreams, he sleepwalks through his days making mediocre dorayaki at a tiny shop called Doraharu. It’s clear from the get-go that Sentaro’s given up on himself. He’s going through the motions, drowning his sorrows in cheap sake each night.

Enter Tokue, an elderly woman with gnarled hands and a mysterious past. She hobbles into Sentaro’s life offering to make sweet bean paste, and boy oh boy, does she deliver. Her an (red bean paste) is nothing short of transcendent. It’s not just delicious – it’s transformative. Tokue doesn’t just make bean paste; she communes with the beans, listening to their stories and coaxing out their essence.

Sukegawa’s prose, beautifully rendered in English by translator Alison Watts, has a deceptive simplicity. He describes Tokue’s bean-making process with an almost meditative quality:

“She stared at the adzuki while pouring. She kept her face up close, stroking them with her fingertips. It looked to Sentaro like she was panning for gold.”

There’s magic in these quiet moments, a reverence for the ingredients and the act of creation that becomes contagious. As Tokue begins to teach Sentaro her craft, we see him slowly, almost imperceptibly, begin to come back to life.

The Weight of History and Societal Pressure

Of course, it can’t all be sweetness and light. This is a Japanese novel, after all, and there’s always an undercurrent of melancholy. As Tokue and Sentaro’s friendship deepens, we learn the dark truth of Tokue’s past. She’s a survivor of Hansen’s disease (leprosy), having spent most of her life in forced isolation at a sanatorium.

Sukegawa doesn’t shy away from the brutal reality of how Hansen’s patients were treated in Japan. The scenes where Tokue recounts her experiences are genuinely heartbreaking. But what’s truly gutting is how that stigma persists, even decades after Tokue’s cure. When word gets out about her background, customers stop coming to Doraharu. The shop owner, despite Sentaro’s protests, insists that Tokue must go.

It’s here that the novel really sinks its teeth into some meaty themes. How do we reconcile societal pressure with personal morality? What does it mean to truly see someone beyond their past or their physical appearance? Sukegawa doesn’t offer easy answers, but he forces us to confront our own prejudices and assumptions.

The Subtle Art of Listening

If there’s a central philosophy to “Sweet Bean Paste,” it’s the importance of truly listening – not just to other people, but to the world around us. Tokue’s approach to making an isn’t just about technique; it’s about being present and attuned to the ingredients. She tells Sentaro:

“I pay attention to the language of things in this world that don’t use words. That’s what I call Listening, and I’ve been doing it for sixty years now.”

This idea of “Listening” (with a capital L) becomes a metaphor for how we should approach life and each other. It’s about slowing down, being present, and finding meaning in the seemingly mundane. As Sentaro learns to Listen, we see him gradually open up to new possibilities and rediscover his own worth.

A Meditation on Purpose and Meaning

One of the most poignant aspects of “Sweet Bean Paste” is how it grapples with the question of what gives a life meaning. Tokue, despite her hardships, has found purpose in her craft and in passing on her knowledge. She tells Sentaro:

“We were born in order to see and listen to the world. And that’s all this world wants of us. It doesn’t matter that I was never a teacher or a member of the workforce, my life had meaning.”

It’s a beautiful sentiment, and one that challenges our often narrow definitions of success and worth. The novel suggests that there’s inherent value in simply being present and appreciating the world around us. It’s a comforting thought, especially for those of us who might feel we’ve fallen short of societal expectations.

The Lingering Aftertaste

“Sweet Bean Paste” isn’t a plot-driven novel. It’s a quiet, contemplative book that unfolds at its own unhurried pace. Some readers might find it slow, but personally, I found its gentleness to be one of its greatest strengths. It’s a book that invites you to slow down, to savor each moment like a perfectly crafted dorayaki.

Sukegawa’s writing style is deceptively simple. There’s a clarity to his prose that belies the depth of the themes he’s exploring. He has a knack for finding profound meaning in small moments—a cherry blossom falling, the smell of cooking beans, the way light falls on an old woman’s face. It’s the kind of writing that makes you want to pay closer attention to your own life, to find the beauty in the everyday.

A Universal Story with Japanese Flavor

While “Sweet Bean Paste” is deeply rooted in Japanese culture, its themes are universal. The struggle to find meaning, the healing power of friendship, the lingering effects of societal prejudice—these are human experiences that transcend borders.

That said, the novel does provide fascinating insight into specific aspects of Japanese society. The treatment of Hansen’s disease patients is a dark chapter in Japan’s history that many Western readers might be unfamiliar with. Sukegawa handles this topic with sensitivity and nuance, neither sugarcoating the past nor wallowing in misery.

Comparisons and Context

“Sweet Bean Paste” is Sukegawa’s first novel to be translated into English, but he’s an established writer in Japan. His background as a poet is evident in the lyrical quality of his prose.

In terms of comparable works, “Sweet Bean Paste” shares some thematic DNA with Banana Yoshimoto’s “Kitchen” – both novels use food as a metaphor for human connection and healing. There’s also a touch of Haruki Murakami’s quieter works in the way Sukegawa finds magic in the mundane.

For readers new to Japanese literature, “Sweet Bean Paste” serves as an excellent entry point. It’s accessible and deeply human, while still offering a distinctly Japanese perspective.

Final Thoughts: A Recipe for the Soul

“Sweet Bean Paste” is the literary equivalent of comfort food—warm, nourishing, and deeply satisfying. It’s a novel that reminds us of the power of human connection and the dignity inherent in every life, no matter how seemingly small or broken.

Sukegawa has crafted a story that, like Tokue’s an, contains multitudes. It’s sweet without being cloying, profound without being preachy. It’s a book that asks us to slow down, to listen more closely, to find meaning in the act of creation—whether that’s making the perfect dorayaki or piecing together a life worth living.

As I turned the final page, I found myself craving not just a dorayaki, but also the kind of deep, attentive presence that Tokue embodied. “Sweet Bean Paste” is a gentle reminder that sometimes, the most revolutionary act is simply to pay attention—to the world around us, to the people we encounter, and to the quiet voice inside ourselves.

It’s a novel that lingers, like the taste of perfectly made an, long after you’ve finished. And isn’t that, in the end, what great literature should do? Leave us changed, if only in some small, sweet way.