On April 17, 1897, in the quiet town of Madison, Wisconsin, a literary legend was born. Thornton Niven Wilder would grow up to become one of America’s most treasured playwrights and novelists, known for capturing the beauty and fragility of everyday life with profound simplicity.

Wilder’s upbringing was steeped in intellect and curiosity. His father, Amos Parker Wilder, was a newspaper editor and U.S. diplomat—often relocating the family across the globe, including a formative period in China. His mother, Isabella, was artistic and cultured, the kind of parent who nurtured expression rather than stifled it. Among his siblings were writers and poets, so storytelling ran in the family bloodstream.

Thornton’s writing, while often minimalist in form, brimmed with emotional richness. His most enduring play, Our Town, premiered in 1938 and earned him the Pulitzer Prize for Drama. It’s a quiet story set in a fictional New Hampshire town, but within its simplicity lies its brilliance. In his own words, “We can only be said to be alive in those moments when our hearts are conscious of our treasures.” And that’s exactly what Our Town does—it reminds us of life’s small treasures: a cup of coffee, a conversation, the way morning light hits the kitchen floor.

When I was in Grade 12, I had the unforgettable experience of performing in Our Town. I played Mr. Charles Webb, Emily’s father and the town’s newspaper editor. Sharing the stage with a trove of wonderfully dynamic actors, including Gabriel Hogan—who played Dr. Frank Gibbs, was surreal in retrospect. But there was a moment during every performance, especially in Act III when the characters reflect on life from the afterlife, that made time stand still. You could feel the audience breathing in unison. It was my first true understanding of theatre as communion. I have kept in touch with many of the cast from that show, and 33 years later, Our Town is still forefront in our minds.

Wilder’s ability to illuminate the ordinary wasn’t limited to the stage. His novel The Bridge of San Luis Rey, which also won a Pulitzer, explores fate and divine purpose through the lens of a seemingly random tragedy. “The highest tribute to the dead is not grief but gratitude,” he wrote—a line that has stayed with me ever since.

What continues to astonish me is how relevant Wilder remains. His work doesn’t need special effects, elaborate sets, or shock value. His storytelling is deeply human, which is perhaps why his influence stretches from playwrights like Edward Albee to modern screenwriters exploring the quiet drama of everyday life.

I sometimes think about what it was like to be that teenager on stage, speaking Wilder’s words without fully realizing their weight. “There is a land of the living and a land of the dead and the bridge is love,” says the Stage Manager in Our Town. That line meant something different to me then than it does now—but that’s the magic of Thornton Wilder. His words grow with you. They mature as you do.

Thornton Wilder passed away in 1975, but his legacy remains etched into the heart of American literature and theatre. His stories are more than narratives—they’re gentle invitations to pay attention, to cherish, to live.