Shirley Jackson’s The Lottery, one of three works mentioned in this essay, succinctly and effectively expresses the dangers of persistent tradition. In just a few pages, Jackson reveals how tradition, bastardized by time and neglect, can lead to unspeakable horror.

The short story makes clear that the town lottery was once a solemn ritual. Old Man Warner explains that there was once a saying: “‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns.” (Jackson 168). The ritual was thought to bring about a good harvest. But overtime, its traditions were shed or forgotten. “There had been . . . a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had to use in addressing each person who came up to draw from the box, but this also had changed with time, until now it was necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching,” (Jackson 165) the narrator explains. Even the black box, the lottery’s most sacred artifact “grew shabbier each year; by now it was no longer completely black but splintered badly along one side to show the original wood color, and in some places faded or stained” (164). What outrages the reader is that the villagers are uncomfortable with the ceremony and could easily choose to stop -Mr. Summers says, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work” (166).

Here, tradition has cracked under the weight of modernity, but the villagers stubbornly cling to the annual execution because they are afraid of the future. “Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use the stones,” (170) the narrator says. Indeed, Old Man Warner denounces the villages that have disbanded the lottery as a “pack of crazy fools” (167) who are setting themselves on a path to savagery. Warner, who is the embodiment of corrupt tradition, even urges the people onward as they stone Tessie Hutchinson: “Come on, come on, everyone” (171), he says. But it is the town itself that has descended into savagery, as they have surrendered their independence to a ritual that has long lost its meaning. By the end of the story, the reader feels a newfound wariness for those who invoke tradition for tradition’s sake.

In contrast to Jackson’s story, Thornton Wilder’s The Skin of Our Teeth is a wonderful production about the triumph of human hope. Wilder, writing in the shadow of the Second World War, uses the pessimistic and frivolous Sabina to mock critics who believed the end was near. “I don’t know why we go on living at all. It’s easier being dead” (Wilder 118), Sabina whines. She complains that every hour is a struggle for survival that the human race can’t ultimately win: “In the midst of life we are in the midst of death, a truer word was never said” (112) she says. Not willing to give thought to why humanity continues to endure, Sabina advises, “not to inquire into why or whither, but just enjoy your ice cream while it’s on your plate” (114).

Yet humanity proves to be resourceful. George Antrobus, who represents the ingenuity of man, manages to invent the wheel, multiplication and beer despite Sabina’s complaints. Likewise, man survives ice ages, floods and wars, each time picking himself again. The fortune teller suggests this cycle of death and renewal is a part of man’s experience, and she chides those who doubt Antrobus. “Some of you will be saying: “Let him drown. He’s not worth saving. Give the whole thing up.” I can see it in your faces. But you’re wrong. Keep your doubts and despairs to yourselves…Again there’ll be the narrow escape. The survival of a handful. From destruction-total destruction,” (173) she says.