In her debut novel Die Gabe, sociologist Suzuki Suzumi tells the story of a mother and daughter whose relationship is marked by distance, misunderstanding, and emotional detachment. Set in Tokyo’s red-light district, the novel follows the daughter’s daily life in the weeks leading up to her mother’s death. Rather than depicting a deep emotional reconciliation, the story instead presents a fragmented narrative of two women forced into close proximity without ever truly bridging the emotional gap between them.
The mother, a poet battling terminal cancer, has spent much of her life writing and publishing poetry. As she nears the end of her life, she wishes to write one last poem but finds it impossible to do so in the sterile environment of the hospital. Seeking inspiration, she moves in with her daughter, who works as a hostess in a nightclub. However, this move is not a sign of emotional closeness, nor is it driven by a desire to reconnect—it is purely a practical decision. While it is common in Japan for aging parents to move in with their children, in this case, the mother’s decision is motivated only by her desire to complete her final work.
The daughter’s job as a hostess involves entertaining male customers, encouraging them to drink, and occasionally having sex with them—though the novel makes it clear that this is not part of her official job description. The mother disapproves of her daughter’s profession, but rather than expressing her disappointment directly or seeking to understand her daughter’s life, she simply maintains a cold distance. This reinforces the emotional divide between them, making their shared living situation feel more like an obligation than an opportunity for connection.
Although one might expect the mother’s illness and their forced cohabitation to serve as a catalyst for emotional growth or reconciliation, no such development occurs. The novel does not depict heartfelt conversations, reconciliations, or a growing understanding between mother and daughter. Instead, their relationship remains one of silent coexistence, where their only real connection is the mother’s illness itself. The narrative even creates the impression of a three-way relationship: mother, daughter, and disease. However, even as the mother’s condition worsens, their interactions remain distant and lack warmth or genuine affection.
Eventually, the mother becomes too weak to stay in her daughter’s apartment and returns to the hospital. This marks yet another missed opportunity for emotional resolution. There is no grand moment of realization, no shift in their dynamic—only the continuation of their mutual detachment.
Structurally, the novel is fragmented and often feels disjointed. It jumps between different aspects of the daughter’s life, including her work at the club, her occasional visits to the hospital, and mundane daily activities. The protagonist’s thoughts are scattered, making it feel as if the reader is wandering through Tokyo’s Kabukichō district, observing fleeting moments without a clear narrative thread. The book reads more like the diary of a young woman struggling with depression and low self-worth than a carefully structured novel with a clear emotional arc.
Despite its setting in Tokyo’s red-light district, Die Gabe does not offer deep social commentary. While it briefly touches on topics such as hostess culture, social stigmas, and the association of tattoos with the Yakuza, it does so in a superficial way. The protagonist has accepted her life in the “water trade” (the Japanese term for jobs in bars and entertainment establishments), showing no motivation to leave it or critically reflect on her situation. The novel does not explore the challenges of women in the industry or the societal prejudices they face. Instead, it merely references these elements without providing meaningful insights, making it feel as if the author has observed the world of hostesses from a distance rather than truly immersing herself in it.
In fact, the story could take place almost anywhere. If one were to remove the Japanese cultural references, the plot would be just as believable in another city—perhaps Hamburg’s Reeperbahn or another red-light district. The location, the profession, and even the country itself feel largely irrelevant to the central narrative.
Even the title, Die Gabe (translated as The Gift), remains ambiguous. The book never clarifies what the “gift” refers to—whether it is the final poem the mother wishes to write, the unspoken bond between mother and daughter, or something else entirely. Readers searching for a clear thematic throughline may be left unsatisfied.
Ultimately, Die Gabe is a novel that lacks a strong emotional core. It presents a mother and daughter who remain distant until the very end, offering no real development in their relationship. Without a compelling dramatic arc or deep character growth, the novel feels more like a collection of loosely connected diary entries than a cohesive, impactful story.
