Expert answer:English Essay
Expert answer:Write a literary analysis of “The Story of an Hour” (ATTACHED FILE)Your analysis (essay) must be at least 2 1/2 pages of writing with a works cited of two sources on the last page .
Use the Literary Reference Center on Texshare. It is an easy search for sources. ALL SOURCES MUST COME FROM TEXTSHARE (SECURE INFORMATION WILL BE PROVIDED BELOW)
• Use in-text citations immediately after you use information from your sources.
• Do not cite “The Story of an Hour.” Including the title and the author in the thesis statement (WRITING LITERACY VIDEO BELOW) is considered the citation for the story.
DO NOT RETELL THE STORY! THIS IS NOT A SUMMARY! FIND A LITERARY DEVICE AND TELL HOW THE AUTHOR USES THE DEVICE TO EXPRESS HIS IDEAS.Watch the Literary Rap video (BELOW) and think about literary devices and how to use at least one in your essay. 3. Study the YouTube video (BELOW) to learn how to begin writing your essay. Take the simple advice on how to write your thesis statement (literary claim). It is a great and failsafe way to make sure you write a proper thesis statement.. 4. Organize your essay with an introductory paragraph, body paragraphs, and a concluding paragraph.a. Make sure that you give background information and a thesis statement in your first paragraph.b. Make sure that you have a separate paragraph for each idea that supports your thesis. And, use your sources alongside your ideas to support your thesis in each paragraph.c. Make sure that your conclusion includes a summary of your ideas that you presented.5. WRITE IN THIRD PERSON & DO NOT USE CONTRACTIONS.
story_of_an_hour.pdf
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There was something coming to her and she was waiting for it, fearfully. What was it? She
did not know; it was too subtle and elusive to name. But she felt it, creeping out of the sky,
reaching toward her through the sounds, the scents, the color that filled the air.
Now her bosom rose and fell tumultuously. She was beginning to recognize this thing that
was approaching to possess her, and she was striving to beat it back with her will—as powerless
as her two white slender hands would have been.
When she abandoned herself a little whispered word escaped her slightly parted lips. She
said it over and over under her breath: “free, free, free!” The vacant stare and the look of terror
that had followed it went from her eyes. They stayed keen and bright. Her pulses beat fast, and
the coursing blood warmed and relaxed every inch of her body.
She did not stop to ask if it were or were not a monstrous joy that held her. A clear and
exalted perception enabled her to dismiss the suggestion as trivial.
She knew that she would weep again when she saw the kind, tender hands folded in death;
the face that had never looked save with love upon her, fixed and gray and dead. But she saw
beyond that bitter moment a long procession of years to come that would belong to her
absolutely. And she opened and spread her arms out to them in welcome.
There would be no one to live for her during those coming years; she would live for herself.
There would be no powerful will bending hers in that blind persistence with which men and
women believe they have a right to impose a private will upon a fellow-creature. A kind
intention or a cruel intention made the act seem no less a crime as she looked upon it in that brief
moment of illumination.
And yet she had loved him—sometimes. Often she had not. What did it matter! What could
love, the unsolved mystery, count for in the face of this possession of self-assertion which she
suddenly recognized as the strongest impulse of her being!
“Free! Body and soul free!” she kept whispering.
Josephine was kneeling before the closed door with her lips to the keyhole, imploring for
admission. “Louise, open the door! I beg; open the door—you will make yourself ill. What are
you doing, Louise? For heaven’s sake open the door.”
“Go away. I am not making myself ill.” No; she was drinking in a very elixir of life through
that open window.
Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.
Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” originally published 1894.
Her fancy was running riot along those days ahead of her. Spring days, and summer days,
and all sorts of days that would be her own. She breathed a quick prayer that life might be long.
It was only yesterday she had thought with a shudder that life might be long.
She arose at length and opened the door to her sister’s importunities. There was a feverish
triumph in her eyes, and she carried herself unwittingly like a goddess of Victory. She clasped
her sister’s waist, and together they descended the stairs. Richards stood waiting for them at the
bottom.
Some one was opening the front door with a latchkey. It was Brently Mallard who entered, a
little travel-stained, composedly carrying his grip-sack and umbrella. He had been far from the
scene of the accident, and did not even know there had been one. He stood amazed at Josephine’s
piercing cry; at Richards’ quick motion to screen him from the view of his wife.
But Richards was too late.
When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease—of joy that kills.
Copyright © by Holt, Rinehart and Winston. All rights reserved.
Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” originally published 1894.
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