Sweet Bean Paste

The initial eight chapters of Sweet Bean Paste establish Sentaro and Tokue as character foils whose contrasting worldviews introduce the novel’s central thematic conflicts. Sentaro embodies a modern, alienated approach to work and life. He performs his job at Doraharu with rote indifference, using mass-produced bean paste and viewing his labor solely as a means to repay a debt. His unfulfilled aspiration to be a writer underscores a profound disconnect between his inner self and his daily existence. Tokue, in contrast, represents a philosophy rooted in connection, reverence, and the inherent value of process. Her persistent, gentle demeanor belies a deep-seated conviction in her craft. She immediately critiques Sentaro’s commercial paste as generic, noting that she “c[a]n’t tell anything about the feelings of the person who made it” (7), thereby framing her approach as an act of personal expression. This fundamental opposition between Sentaro’s mechanized labor and Tokue’s spiritual dedication to her craft establishes the thematic core of the narrative: the search for meaning in a world that often prioritizes efficiency over soulfulness.

In the novel, the sweet bean paste functions as a tangible representation of dignity, history, and the human spirit. The narrative contrasts the two types of paste to illustrate Finding Dignity and Connection Through Craftsmanship. Sentaro’s commercial product mixed with leftovers is bland and uninspired, reflecting his own disengagement. Tokue’s paste, however, is the result of a laborious ritual. Her method involves attentive engagement with the ingredients, a practice that she describes as providing “hospitality” to the beans because they “came all the way from Canada. For us” (25). This personification elevates the adzuki beans from a mere commodity to beings with their own journey and story. The recurring motif of “Listening” is introduced through her physical closeness to the beans, suggesting a form of non-verbal mindful practice of communication and respect. The novel argues that true craftsmanship is about embedding one’s care and humanity into the final product.

Even as the narrative celebrates Tokue’s craft, it foreshadows the bias that threatens her. The Destructive Power of Social Stigma and Prejudice is introduced through Sentaro’s calculated, preemptive actions to hide Tokue’s presence in the shop. His decision to hire Tokue is based purely on the quality of her product, yet it is immediately compromised by his fear of public perception. He resolves that “customers don’t have to see her” (12), a decision that reveals his internalized misconceptions about age and physical difference. Tokue’s hands, which she cannot fully straighten, thus represent both the source of her talent and the physical marker of illness that renders her socially unacceptable. Sentaro’s anxiety about the reactions of his customers—particularly the schoolgirls and the shop owner, whose anger he recalls—demonstrates how stigma operates as a pervasive force that shapes economic and social interactions, forcing individuals to compromise their moral convictions. Sentaro’s internal conflict reflects a society that professes to value skill but often capitulates to irrational fear.

The motifs of imprisonment and freedom provide a structural framework for the characters’ motivations and their relationship to the Doraharu shop. For Sentaro, the shop is a prison. His labor is not a choice but a consequence of debt, and his constant thoughts are of his “day of release from this toil” (12). Tokue, though her past remains vague, also exists within a state of confinement. Her lack of a telephone, her reliance on the post, and her visible relief upon learning that the shop’s owner rarely visits all hint at a life lived on the margins, deliberately avoiding scrutiny. For her, the shop thus becomes a portal to the world, a place where she can exercise her skill and achieve a degree of agency.

Sukegawa’s use of third-person limited perspective is a narrative strategy that implicates the reader in the protagonist’s gradual process of confronting prejudice. The reader’s initial introduction to Tokue is filtered through Sentaro’s wary and dismissive perceptions: She is an odd, persistent old lady with physical differences. By confining the narrative to Sentaro’s consciousness, the author forces the reader to experience Tokue as he does—first as an object of suspicion and only later, through the undeniable evidence of her craft, as a person of immense skill and wisdom. When Sentaro admits that he’s “[n]ever tasted bean paste like it” (33), his astonishment marks a moment of cognitive dissonance, where sensory truth begins to dismantle his preconceived disdain. The reader experiences Sentaro’s transformation from a cynical operator into a dedicated apprentice as an intimate and resonant journey, experiencing the slow erosion of bias through Sentaro’s eyes. This technique lets the novel consider how empathy is cultivated, arguing that it happens through direct engagement that challenges one’s deepest assumptions.