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“The Lottery” is a short story by American author Shirley Jackson, first published in the New Yorker in 1948. Over the years, it has maintained its place as one of the most chilling and thought-provoking stories in American literature. With its haunting depiction of societal norms and blind obedience, the story incites readers to question their adherence to traditions and the potential consequences of unquestioned conformity.

The Plot: A Disturbing Reversal of Expectations

On the surface, “The Lottery” starts as a seemingly innocent tale about a small town preparing for its annual lottery. The townsfolk gather in the square, children happily collect stones, and families engage in casual banter. The atmosphere is festive, as if they are preparing for a joyful event.

As the story progresses, it becomes clear that this is no ordinary lottery. The winner doesn’t receive a grand prize but instead faces a gruesome fate: a public stoning. The realization is shocking and forces a reconsideration of the story’s earlier, more benign scenes.

The Lottery: A Symbol of Blind Obedience and Societal Norms

The lottery serves as a powerful symbol of blind obedience to societal norms. It is a tradition that has been practiced in the village for so long that its original purpose and meaning have been lost. The townspeople carry out the lottery merely because it has always been done, a horrific example of unquestioning conformity.

The villagers follow the lottery’s ritualistic proceedings with a sense of normalcy and acceptance. The black box used for the lottery, old and worn-out, is a physical manifestation of the tradition’s antiquity. Despite its shabby state, the villagers are resistant to replace it, a testament to their adherence to tradition.

Moreover, the lottery’s proceedings are steeped in ritualistic details. There’s a formal swearing-in of the official of the lottery, a recital of an old chant, and a traditional salute, reinforcing the deeply ingrained nature of this practice in the community.

The Role of Characters: Perpetuating Blind Obedience

Jackson’s characters play crucial roles in underscoring the story’s central themes. The townspeople, despite their individual identities, collectively represent a society that perpetuates tradition without questioning its moral implications.

Mr. Summers, who conducts the lottery, epitomizes the collective blindness. He seems to perform his duties without reflecting on their horrifying consequences. The postmaster, Mr. Graves, despite his ominous name, is also an unthinking participant. Even the children, engaging in their grim pre-lottery tradition of stone gathering, depict the community’s indoctrination.

The character of Tessie Hutchinson offers the most significant commentary. Initially, she too participates in the lottery without question. However, when her family is drawn, she protests, challenging the fairness of the lottery. But her objections are dismissed, and the communal adherence to the cruel tradition ultimately seals her fate. Her shift from passive participant to vocal objector and then victim powerfully illustrates the potential peril of blind conformity.

A Social Commentary: Critiquing Tradition and Conformity

“The Lottery” is a chilling critique of societal norms and blind obedience. It prompts readers to question the validity and morality of unexamined traditions. The story suggests that following traditions merely for their own sake can lead to harmful outcomes.

The narrative also exposes the dangers of collective pressure and conformity. The townspeople’s unwillingness to question the lottery shows how societal pressure can silence individual voices and moral judgments.


“The Lottery” is a poignant exploration of the dark side of societal norms and blind obedience. Through its haunting narrative and symbolism, it compels readers to scrutinize the traditions they follow and consider their potential implications. Jackson’s tale serves as a stark reminder of the potential horror that can ensue when societal norms go unquestioned and conformity is valued over individual morality and critical thinking.

The Lottery by Shirley Jackson Full Story

The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green. The people of the village began to gather in the square, between the post office and the bank, around ten o’clock; in some towns there were so many people that the lottery took two days and had to be started on June 26th, but in this village, where there were only about three hundred people, the whole lottery took only about two hours, so it could begin at ten o’clock in the morning and still be through in time to allow the villagers to get home for noon dinner.

The children assembled first, of course. School was recently over for the summer, and the feeling of liberty sat uneasily on most of them; they tended to gather together quietly for a while before they broke into boisterous play, and their talk was still of the classroom and the teacher, of books and reprimands. Bobby Martin had already stuffed his pockets full of stones, and the other boys soon followed his example, selecting the smoothest and roundest stones; Bobby and Harry Jones and Dickie Delacroix—the villagers pronounced this name “Dellacroy”—eventually made a great pile of stones in one corner of the square and guarded it against the raids of the other boys. The girls stood aside, talking among themselves, looking over their shoulders at the boys, and the very small children rolled in the dust or clung to the hands of their older brothers or sisters.

Soon the men began to gather, surveying their own children, speaking of planting and rain, tractors and taxes. They stood together, away from the pile of stones in the corner, and their jokes were quiet and they smiled rather than laughed. The women, wearing faded house dresses and sweaters, came shortly after their menfolk. They greeted one another and exchanged bits of gossip as they went to join their husbands. Soon the women, standing by their husbands, began to call to their children, and the children came reluctantly, having to be called four or five times. Bobby Martin ducked under his mother’s grasping hand and ran, laughing, back to the pile of stones. His father spoke up sharply, and Bobby came quickly and took his place between his father and his oldest brother.

The lottery was conducted—as were the square dances, the teen-age club, the Halloween program—by Mr. Summers, who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He was a round-faced, jovial man and he ran the coal business, and people were sorry for him, because he had no children and his wife was a scold. When he arrived in the square, carrying the black wooden box, there was a murmur of conversation among the villagers, and he waved and called, “Little late today, folks.” The postmaster, Mr. Graves, followed him, carrying a three-legged stool, and the stool was put in the center of the square and Mr. Summers set the black box down on it. The villagers kept their distance, leaving a space between themselves and the stool, and when Mr. Summers said, “Some of you fellows want to give me a hand?,” there was a hesitation before two men, Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Summers stirred up the papers inside it.

The original paraphernalia for the lottery had been lost long ago, and the black box now resting on the stool had been put into use even before Old Man Warner, the oldest man in town, was born. Mr. Summers spoke frequently to the villagers about making a new box, but no one liked to upset even as much tradition as was represented by the black box. There was a story that the present box had been made with some pieces of the box that had preceded it, the one that had been constructed when the first people settled down to make a village here. Every year, after the lottery, Mr. Summers began talking again about a new box, but every year the subject was allowed to fade off without anything’s being done. The black box 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.

Mr. Martin and his oldest son, Baxter, held the black box securely on the stool until Mr. Summers had stirred the papers thoroughly with his hand. Because so much of the ritual had been forgotten or discarded, Mr. Summers had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations. Chips of wood, Mr. Summers had argued, had been all very well when the village was tiny, but now that the population was more than three hundred and likely to keep on growing, it was necessary to use something that would fit more easily into the black box. The night before the lottery, Mr. Summers and Mr. Graves made up the slips of paper and put them into the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Summers’ coal company and locked up until Mr. Summers was ready to take it to the square next morning. The rest of the year, the box was put away, sometimes one place, sometimes another; it had spent one year in Mr. Graves’ barn and another year underfoot in the post office, and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Martin grocery and left there.

There was a great deal of fussing to be done before Mr. Summers declared the lottery open. There were the lists to make up—of heads of families, heads of households in each family, members of each household in each family. There was the proper swearing-in of Mr. Summers by the postmaster, as the official of the lottery; at one time, some people remembered, there had been a recital of some sort, performed by the official of the lottery, a perfunctory, tuneless chant that had been rattled off duly each year; some people believed that the official of the lottery used to stand just so when he said or sang it, others believed that he was supposed to walk among the people, but years and years ago this part of the ritual had been allowed to lapse. There had been, also, a ritual salute, which the official of the lottery had 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 felt necessary only for the official to speak to each person approaching. Mr. Summers was very good at all this; in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, with one hand resting carelessly on the black box, he seemed very proper and important as he talked interminably to Mr. Graves and the Martins.


Just as Mr. Summers finally left off talking and turned to the assembled villagers, Mrs. Hutchinson came hurriedly along the path to the square, her sweater thrown over her shoulders, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. “Clean forgot what day it was,” she said to Mrs. Delacroix, who stood next to her, and they both laughed softly. “Thought my old man was out back stacking wood,” Mrs. Hutchinson went on, “and then I looked out the window and the kids was gone, and then I remembered it was the twenty-seventh and came a-running.” She dried her hands on her apron, and Mrs. Delacroix said, “You’re in time, though. They’re still talking away up there.”

Mrs. Hutchinson craned her neck to see through the crowd and found her husband and children standing near the front. She tapped Mrs. Delacroix on the arm as a farewell and began to make her way through the crowd. The people separated good-humoredly to let her through; two or three people said, in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, “Here comes your Mrs., Hutchinson,” and “Bill, she made it after all.” Mrs. Hutchinson reached her husband, and Mr. Summers, who had been waiting, said cheerfully, “Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Tessie.” Mrs. Hutchinson said, grinning, “Wouldn’t have me leave m’dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?,” and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson’s arrival.

“Well, now,” Mr. Summers said soberly, “guess we better get started, get this over with, so’s we can go back to work. Anybody ain’t here?”

“Dunbar,” several people said. “Dunbar, Dunbar.”

Mr. Summers consulted his list. “Clyde Dunbar,” he said. “That’s right. He’s broke his leg, hasn’t he? Who’s drawing for him?”

“Me, I guess,” a woman said, and Mr. Summers turned to look at her. “Wife draws for her husband,” Mr. Summers said. “Don’t you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Although Mr. Summers and everyone else in the village knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the official of the lottery to ask such questions formally. Mr. Summers waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Dunbar answered.

“Horace’s not but sixteen yet,” Mrs. Dunbar said regretfully. “Guess I gotta fill in for the old man this year.”

“Right,” Mr. Summers said. He made a note on the list he was holding. Then he asked, “Watson boy drawing this year?”

A tall boy in the crowd raised his hand. “Here,” he said. “I’m drawing for m’mother and me.” He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like “Good fellow, Jack,” and “Glad to see your mother’s got a man to do it.”

“Well,” Mr. Summers said, “guess that’s everyone. Old Man Warner make it?”

“Here,” a voice said, and Mr. Summers nodded.

Asudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Summers cleared his throat and looked at the list. “All ready?” he called. “Now, I’ll read the names—heads of families first—and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions; most of them were quiet, wetting their lips, not looking around. Then Mr. Summers raised one hand high and said, “Adams.” A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. “Hi, Steve,” Mr. Summers said, and Mr. Adams said, “Hi, Joe.” They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd, where he stood a little apart from his family, not looking down at his hand.

“Allen,” Mr. Summers said. “Anderson. . . . Bentham.”

“Seems like there’s no time at all between lotteries any more,” Mrs. Delacroix said to Mrs. Graves in the back row. “Seems like we got through with the last one only last week.”

“Time sure goes fast,” Mrs. Graves said.

“Clark. . . . Delacroix.”

“There goes my old man,” Mrs. Delacroix said. She held her breath while her husband went forward.

“Dunbar,” Mr. Summers said, and Mrs. Dunbar went steadily to the box while one of the women said, “Go on, Janey,” and another said, “There she goes.”

“We’re next,” Mrs. Graves said. She watched while Mr. Graves came around from the side of the box, greeted Mr. Summers gravely, and selected a slip of paper from the box. By now, all through the crowd there were men holding the small folded papers in their large hands, turning them over and over nervously. Mrs. Dunbar and her two sons stood together, Mrs. Dunbar holding the slip of paper.

“Harburt. . . . Hutchinson.”

“Get up there, Bill,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, and the people near her laughed.


“They do say,” Mr. Adams said to Old Man Warner, who stood next to him, “that over in the north village they’re talking of giving up the lottery.”

Old Man Warner snorted. “Pack of crazy fools,” he said. “Listening to the young folks, nothing’s good enough for them. Next thing you know, they’ll be wanting to go back to living in caves, nobody work any more, live that way for a while. Used to be a saying about ‘Lottery in June, corn be heavy soon.’ First thing you know, we’d all be eating stewed chickweed and acorns. There’s always been a lottery,” he added petulantly. “Bad enough to see young Joe Summers up there joking with everybody.”

“Some places have already quit lotteries,” Mrs. Adams said.

“Nothing but trouble in that,” Old Man Warner said stoutly. “Pack of young fools.”

“Martin.” And Bobby Martin watched his father go forward. “Overdyke. . . . Percy.”

“I wish they’d hurry,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son. “I wish they’d hurry.”

“They’re almost through,” her son said.

“You get ready to run tell Dad,” Mrs. Dunbar said.

Mr. Summers called his own name and then stepped forward precisely and selected a slip from the box. Then he called, “Warner.”

“Seventy-seventh year I been in the lottery,” Old Man Warner said as he went through the crowd. “Seventy-seventh time.”

“Watson.” The tall boy came awkwardly through the crowd. Someone said, “Don’t be nervous, Jack,” and Mr. Summers said, “Take your time, son.”



After that, there was a long pause, a breathless pause, until Mr. Summers, holding his slip of paper in the air, said, “All right, fellows.” For a minute, no one moved, and then all the slips of paper were opened. Suddenly, all the women began to speak at once, saying, “Who is it?,” “Who’s got it?,” “Is it the Dunbars?,” “Is it the Watsons?” Then the voices began to say, “It’s Hutchinson. It’s Bill,” “Bill Hutchinson’s got it.”

“Go tell your father,” Mrs. Dunbar said to her older son.

People began to look around to see the Hutchinsons. Bill Hutchinson was standing quiet, staring down at the paper in his hand. Suddenly, Tessie Hutchinson shouted to Mr. Summers, “You didn’t give him time enough to take any paper he wanted. I saw you. It wasn’t fair!”

“Be a good sport, Tessie,” Mrs. Delacroix called, and Mrs. Graves said, “All of us took the same chance.”

“Shut up, Tessie,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“Well, everyone,” Mr. Summers said, “that was done pretty fast, and now we’ve got to be hurrying a little more to get done in time.” He consulted his next list. “Bill,” he said, “you draw for the Hutchinson family. You got any other households in the Hutchinsons?”

“There’s Don and Eva,” Mrs. Hutchinson yelled. “Make them take their chance!”

“Daughters draw with their husbands’ families, Tessie,” Mr. Summers said gently. “You know that as well as anyone else.”

“It wasn’t fair,” Tessie said.

“I guess not, Joe,” Bill Hutchinson said regretfully. “My daughter draws with her husband’s family, that’s only fair. And I’ve got no other family except the kids.”

“Then, as far as drawing for families is concerned, it’s you,” Mr. Summers said in explanation, “and as far as drawing for households is concerned, that’s you, too. Right?”

“Right,” Bill Hutchinson said.

“How many kids, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked formally.

“Three,” Bill Hutchinson said. “There’s Bill, Jr., and Nancy, and little Dave. And Tessie and me.”

“All right, then,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you got their tickets back?”

Mr. Graves nodded and held up the slips of paper. “Put them in the box, then,” Mr. Summers directed. “Take Bill’s and put it in.”

“I think we ought to start over,” Mrs. Hutchinson said, as quietly as she could. “I tell you it wasn’t fair. You didn’t give him time enough to choose. Everybody saw that.”

Mr. Graves had selected the five slips and put them in the box, and he dropped all the papers but those onto the ground, where the breeze caught them and lifted them off.

“Listen, everybody,” Mrs. Hutchinson was saying to the people around her.

“Ready, Bill?” Mr. Summers asked, and Bill Hutchinson, with one quick glance around at his wife and children, nodded.

“Remember,” Mr. Summers said, “take the slips and keep them folded until each person has taken one. Harry, you help little Dave.” Mr. Graves took the hand of the little boy, who came willingly with him up to the box. “Take a paper out of the box, Davy,” Mr. Summers said. Davy put his hand into the box and laughed. “Take just one paper,” Mr. Summers said. “Harry, you hold it for him.” Mr. Graves took the child’s hand and removed the folded paper from the tight fist and held it while little Dave stood next to him and looked up at him wonderingly.

“Nancy next,” Mr. Summers said. Nancy was twelve, and her school friends breathed heavily as she went forward, switching her skirt, and took a slip daintily from the box. “Bill, Jr.,” Mr. Summers said, and Billy, his face red and his feet overlarge, nearly knocked the box over as he got a paper out. “Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. She hesitated for a minute, looking around defiantly, and then set her lips and went up to the box. She snatched a paper out and held it behind her.

“Bill,” Mr. Summers said, and Bill Hutchinson reached into the box and felt around, bringing his hand out at last with the slip of paper in it.

The crowd was quiet. A girl whispered, “I hope it’s not Nancy,” and the sound of the whisper reached the edges of the crowd.

“It’s not the way it used to be,” Old Man Warner said clearly. “People ain’t the way they used to be.”

“All right,” Mr. Summers said. “Open the papers. Harry, you open little Dave’s.”

Mr. Graves opened the slip of paper and there was a general sigh through the crowd as he held it up and everyone could see that it was blank. Nancy and Bill, Jr., opened theirs at the same time, and both beamed and laughed, turning around to the crowd and holding their slips of paper above their heads.

“Tessie,” Mr. Summers said. There was a pause, and then Mr. Summers looked at Bill Hutchinson, and Bill unfolded his paper and showed it. It was blank.

“It’s Tessie,” Mr. Summers said, and his voice was hushed. “Show us her paper, Bill.”

Bill Hutchinson went over to his wife and forced the slip of paper out of her hand. It had a black spot on it, the black spot Mr. Summers had made the night before with the heavy pencil in the coal-company office. Bill Hutchinson held it up, and there was a stir in the crowd.

“All right, folks,” Mr. Summers said. “Let’s finish quickly.”

Although the villagers had forgotten the ritual and lost the original black box, they still remembered to use stones. The pile of stones the boys had made earlier was ready; there were stones on the ground with the blowing scraps of paper that had come out of the box. Mrs. Delacroix selected a stone so large she had to pick it up with both hands and turned to Mrs. Dunbar. “Come on,” she said. “Hurry up.”

Mrs. Dunbar had small stones in both hands, and she said, gasping for breath. “I can’t run at all. You’ll have to go ahead and I’ll catch up with you.”

The children had stones already, and someone gave little Davy Hutchinson a few pebbles.

Tessie Hutchinson was in the center of a cleared space by now, and she held her hands out desperately as the villagers moved in on her. “It isn’t fair,” she said. A stone hit her on the side of the head.

Old Man Warner was saying, “Come on, come on, everyone.” Steve Adams was in the front of the crowd of villagers, with Mrs. Graves beside him.

“It isn’t fair, it isn’t right,” Mrs. Hutchinson screamed, and then they were upon her.

Interview with Shirley Jackson

*(this is an imaginary interview with Shirley Jackson)

What initially drew you to writing, and what role did it play in your life?

Writing has always been an integral part of my life. From a young age, I found solace and expression through words. It provided me with a means to explore the complexities of human nature and the world around me.

How did your personal experiences and upbringing influence your writing style and the themes you explored in your works?

My upbringing in a small New England town and my experiences as a wife and mother greatly influenced my writing. The dynamics of small communities, the tension between conformity and individuality, and the exploration of psychological depths were themes I often explored in my works.

Were there any specific authors or literary influences that inspired you or had a significant impact on your writing?

I drew inspiration from a wide range of authors, including Daphne du Maurier, Edgar Allan Poe, and Henry James. Their ability to create atmospheric tension and delve into the darker aspects of human psyche resonated with me.

What was your writing process like? Did you have any specific rituals or routines that helped you focus and generate ideas?

My writing process varied, but I often found routine to be essential. I would set aside dedicated hours each day to write, usually in the morning. As for rituals, a cup of tea and a quiet space were often my companions during the creative process.

How did you balance your writing career with other aspects of your life, such as family and personal obligations?

Balancing my writing career with family and personal obligations was a constant juggling act. I strived to carve out time for my writing amidst the demands of daily life. Support from my husband and understanding of my family were crucial in allowing me the space to pursue my passion.

Did you face any particular challenges or obstacles as a female writer during the time you were active? How did you navigate them?

Being a female writer in the mid-20th century certainly presented its challenges. There were societal expectations and prejudices that I had to contend with. However, I remained focused on my work and allowed my writing to speak for itself, often using my stories to subtly challenge societal norms and expectations.

“The Lottery” is often categorized as a work of horror or the gothic. What drew you to these genres, and what aspects of them do you find most intriguing?

I was fascinated by the psychological aspects of horror and the gothic. These genres allowed me to explore the darker recesses of the human mind, the unknown, and the unspoken. They provided a means to shed light on the complexities of human nature and the societal structures that perpetuate violence and oppression.

Are there any other short stories or novels you’ve written that hold a special place in your heart? If so, what makes them meaningful to you?

While “The Lottery” is often regarded as my most notable work, “The Haunting of Hill House” holds a special place in my heart. It allowed me to delve deep into themes of isolation, mental instability, and the supernatural, all while exploring the fragile boundaries between reality and imagination.

How do you approach the creation of your characters? Are they often based on real people or purely products of your imagination?

My characters are often a blend of imagination and observation. While some are purely products of my imagination, others are inspired by people I have encountered or observed. I find it intriguing to examine the complexities and flaws of individuals and their interactions within the narratives I create.

Looking back on your body of work, what do you hope readers will take away from your stories and the themes you explored?

I hope that readers will find resonance in the themes I explored and be compelled to question the conventions and norms of society. Through my stories, I aimed to provoke thought, shed light on the dark corners of the human psyche, and inspire conversations about the complexities of the human experience.

Questions about “The Lottery”

What inspired you to write “The Lottery”? Were there any specific events or ideas that influenced the story?

“The Lottery” was inspired by a combination of factors. I was intrigued by the idea of exploring the darker aspects of human nature and the potential for violence that lies within seemingly ordinary individuals. Additionally, I was influenced by my observations of small-town dynamics, where traditions and rituals often hold great sway over communities. The story was also inspired by historical instances of communal violence and scapegoating, which serve as cautionary tales about the dangers of blind conformity.

The ending of “The Lottery” is shocking and controversial. What message or theme were you trying to convey through this shocking conclusion?

The shocking ending of “The Lottery” was intended to provoke a visceral reaction in readers and challenge their preconceived notions about the nature of tradition and the potential for cruelty within society. The story explores themes of blindly following tradition, the dangers of collective violence, and the human capacity for complacency in the face of injustice. By confronting readers with the brutal consequences of mindless conformity, I aimed to encourage critical thinking and an examination of the rituals and practices we accept without question.

“The Lottery” addresses themes of tradition, conformity, and the darker aspects of human nature. Can you elaborate on why you chose these themes and how they relate to the story?

Tradition, conformity, and the darker aspects of human nature were central themes in “The Lottery” because I wanted to delve into the complexities of societal structures and the ways in which they shape individual behavior. The story examines the power of tradition and the unquestioning adherence to rituals, raising questions about the morality and purpose of such practices. It also explores how conformity and the fear of standing out can lead to the perpetuation of violence. By highlighting these themes, I sought to emphasize the importance of critical thinking and individual agency in the face of oppressive systems.

The story showcases a small-town community with seemingly ordinary people participating in a brutal ritual. What commentary were you making on the nature of society and its ability to perpetuate violence?

Through the depiction of the small-town community in “The Lottery,” I aimed to shed light on the potential for violence that exists within any society. The story explores how collective belief systems and traditions can serve as justifications for acts of cruelty, even when enacted by seemingly ordinary individuals. By presenting the participants as familiar, everyday people, I sought to emphasize that anyone has the capacity to participate in or perpetuate violence when caught in the grip of conformity and societal pressure. It was a commentary on the dangers of complacency and the importance of questioning established norms to prevent the perpetuation of harmful practices.

The setting of the story plays a significant role. Why did you choose to set “The Lottery” in a seemingly idyllic small town? What effect were you aiming for?

The choice to set “The Lottery” in a seemingly idyllic small town was deliberate. I wanted to juxtapose the tranquil, picturesque facade of the community with the dark undercurrents that lay beneath the surface. This contrast heightens the sense of shock and disbelief when the brutal nature of the lottery is revealed. The idyllic setting also serves to emphasize the universality of the themes explored in the story, as similar dynamics can be found in various societies, regardless of their apparent charm or tranquility.

The characters in “The Lottery” appear to blindly follow tradition without questioning it. What do you believe this says about human nature and our tendency to conform?

The characters in “The Lottery” reflect the tendency of human nature to conform to established norms and traditions, often without questioning their purpose or morality. This exploration of human behavior serves as a cautionary tale about the dangers of mindless conformity and the ease with which individuals can become complicit in acts of violence. It suggests that the desire for social acceptance and the fear of standing out can override our moral compass, leading us to perpetuate harmful practices. By highlighting this tendency, I aimed to provoke introspection and encourage readers to critically examine the traditions and rituals they themselves may unquestioningly adhere to.

The ritualistic nature of the lottery is described in great detail. How did you approach creating the ritual, and what purpose does it serve in the story?

The creation of the lottery ritual involved a meticulous attention to detail. I wanted to capture the atmosphere of tension and foreboding that accompanies such ceremonies. By describing the ritual in vivid detail, including the selection of the black box and the process of drawing slips of paper, I aimed to immerse readers in the unsettling experience and heighten their sense of unease. The ritual serves as a vehicle to explore the themes of tradition and collective violence, as well as to emphasize the normalization and perpetuation of harmful practices through repetitive and ritualistic acts.

The story explores the theme of scapegoating and the dangers of collective violence. Can you discuss your intentions behind incorporating this theme and the impact it has on the story?

The theme of scapegoating in “The Lottery” was integral to my exploration of the darker aspects of human nature and the potential for violence within communities. By designating a sacrificial victim, the story highlights the ease with which individuals can be dehumanized and targeted as a means of preserving social order. The theme of scapegoating also allows for an examination of the dangers of collective violence, where the participation of many absolves individuals of personal responsibility. Through this theme, I sought to emphasize the importance of questioning societal norms and challenging the dehumanization of others.

“The Lottery” has sparked numerous interpretations and discussions since its publication. What were your expectations regarding reader reactions, and how do you feel about the enduring legacy of the story?

When I wrote “The Lottery,” I anticipated that the story would evoke strong reactions and provoke discussions about the nature of tradition, conformity, and collective violence. I wanted readers to grapple with the unsettling themes and contemplate the potential for darkness within humanity. The enduring legacy of the story has far exceeded my expectations. I am pleased that “The Lottery” continues to spark conversations and resonate with readers, as it underscores the timeless relevance of the themes explored and the importance of critical engagement with societal practices.

“The Lottery” is often considered a classic work of American literature. How do you personally feel about its impact and legacy?

I am deeply grateful for the impact and legacy that “The Lottery” has achieved. It has been humbling to witness the enduring resonance of the story and the ways in which it has become a touchstone for discussions on tradition, conformity, and the dangers of blind acceptance. “The Lottery” has prompted readers to question societal structures and engage in critical reflection. Its enduring status as a classic work of American literature is a testament to the power of storytelling and its ability to provoke thought and challenge established norms.

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