Need Writing Help

ENG 102

Week 1 Required Reading

• “The Story of an Hour”

1

The Story of an Hour

Knowing that Mrs. Mallard was afflicted with a heart trouble, great care was taken to break to her as gently as possible the news of her husband’s death.

It was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing. Her husband’s friend Richards was there, too, near her. It was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the railroad disaster was received, with Brently Mallard’s name leading the list of “killed.” He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram, and had hastened to forestall any less careful, less tender friend in bearing the sad message.

She did not hear the story as many women have heard the same, with a paralyzed inability to accept its significance. She wept at once, with sudden, wild abandonment, in her sister’s arms. When the storm of grief had spent itself she went away to her room alone. She would have no one follow her.

There stood, facing the open window, a comfortable, roomy armchair. Into this she sank, pressed down by a physical exhaustion that haunted her body and seemed to reach into her soul.

She could see in the open square before her house the tops of trees that were all aquiver with the new spring life. The delicious breath of rain was in the air. In the street below a peddler was crying his wares. The notes of a distant song which someone was singing reached her faintly, and countless sparrows were twittering in the eaves.

There were patches of blue sky showing here and there through the clouds that had met and piled one above the other in the west facing her window.

She sat with her head thrown back upon the cushion of the chair, quite motionless, except when a sob came up into her throat and shook her, as a child who has cried itself to sleep continues to sob in its dreams.

She was young, with a fair, calm face, whose lines bespoke repression and even a certain strength. But now there was a dull stare in her eyes, whose gaze was fixed away off yonder on one of those patches of blue sky. It was not a glance of reflection, but rather indicated a suspension of intelligent thought.

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 the breath: “free, free, free!” The

2

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 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.

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.

Someone 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.

When the doctors came they said she had died of heart disease–of the joy that kills.

3

Author Note:

Kate Chopin, born Katherine O’Flaherty (February 8, 1850 – August 22, 1904), was a U.S. author of short stories and novels. She is now considered by some to have been a forerunner of the feminist authors of the 20th century of Southern or Catholic background, such as Zelda Fitzgerald.

From 1892 to 1895, she wrote short stories for both children and adults that were published in such magazines as Atlantic Monthly,Vogue, The Century Magazine, and The Youth’s Companion. Her major works were two short story collections, Bayou Folk (1894) and A Night in Acadie (1897). The characters in her stories are usually inhabitants of Louisiana. Many of her works are set in Natchitoches in north central Louisiana.

For a more comprehensive biography, please review Jones, Michelle L. “Kate Chopin.” Dictionary of World Biography: The 19th Century, Jan. 2000, pp. 1– 3. EBSCOhost, search.ebscohost.com/login.aspx?direct=true&db=lkh&AN=103331DW N10330260000130&site=lrc-plus.

License & Attributions:

• Biography of Kate Chopin. Provided by: Wikipedia. Located at: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kate_Chopin. License: CC BY-SA: Attribution- ShareAlike

• The Story of an Hour. Authored by: Kate Chopin. Located at: http://americanliterature.com/author/kate-chopin/short-story/the-story-of-an- hour. License: Public Domain: No Known Copyright

Created using Lumen learning (https://courses.lumenlearning.com/introliterature/chapter/the- story-of-an-hour-by-kate-chopin/). License: Public Domain: No Known Copyright

Chopin, Kate. "The Story of an Hour." American Literature. 8 June 2021. https://americanliterature.com/ author/kate-chopin/short-story/the-story-of-an-hour

“Cross”

By: Langston Hughes

My old man’s a white old man And my old mother’s black. If ever I cursed my white old man I take my curses back.

If ever I cursed my black old mother And wished she were in hell, I’m sorry for that evil wish And now I wish her well.

My old man died in a fine big house. My ma died in a shack. I wonder where I’m gonna die, Being neither white nor black?

Hughes, Langston. “Cross.” American Interest, vol. 9, no. 5, May 2014, p. 128. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=95612483&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“The Backlash Blues”

By: Langston Hughes

Mister Backlash, Mister Backlash, Just who do you think I am? Tell me, Mister Backlash, Who do you think I am? You raise my taxes, freeze my wages, Send my son to Vietnam.

You give me second-class houses, Give me second-class schools, Second-class houses And second-class schools. You must think us colored folks Are second-class fools.

When I try to find a job To earn a little cash, Try to find myself a job To earn a little cash, All you got to offer Is a white backlash.

But the world is big, The world is big and round, Great big world, Mister Backlash, Big and bright and round— And it's full of folks like me who are Black, Yellow, Beige, and Brown.

Mister Backlash, Mister Backlash, What do you think I got to lose? Tell me, Mister Backlash, What you think I got to lose? I'm gonna leave you, Mister Backlash, Singing your mean old backlash blues.

You're the one, Yes, you're the one Will have the blues. Not me - Wait and see!

Hughes, Langston. “The Backlash Blues.” ETC: A Review of General Semantics, vol. 74, no. 1/2, Jan. 2017, p. 222. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu- gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=1327927 29&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“Dreams”

By: Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow.

Hughes, Langston. “Dreams.” Scholastic Scope, vol. 65, no. 3, Nov. 2016, p. 13. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=118711206&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“Go Slow”

By: Langston Hughes

Go slow, they say – While the bite of the dog is fast. Go slow, I hear - While they tell me, You can’t eat here! You can’t live here! You can’t work here! Wait! While they lock the gate.

Am I supposed to be god, Or an angel with wings And a halo on my head While jobless I starve dead? Am I supposed to forgive And meekly live Going slow, slow, slow, Slow, slow, slow, Slow, slow. Slow, Slow, Slow? ???? ??? ?? ?

Hughes, Langston. “Go Slow.” ETC: A Review of General Semantics, vol. 74, no. 1/2, Jan. 2017, p. 214. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu /login.aspx?direct=true&AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=132792727&site=ehost- live&scope=site.

“Mother to Son”

By: Langston Hughes

Well, son, I’ll tell you: Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair. It’s had tacks in it, And splinters, And boards torn up, And places with no carpet on the floor— Bare. But all the time I’se been a-climbin’ on, And reachin’ landin’s, And turnin’ corners, And sometimes goin’ in the dark Where there ain’t been no light. So boy, don’t you turn back. Don’t you set down on the steps ’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard. Don’t you fall now— For I’se still goin’, honey, I’se still climbin’, And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

Hughes, Langston. “Mother to Son.” Ebony, vol. 51, no. 1, Nov. 1995, p. 99. EBSCOhost, search-ebscohost-com.proxygsu-gamc.galileo.usg.edu/login.aspx?direct=true& AuthType=ip,shib&db=a9h&AN=9510255317&site=ehost-live&scope=site.

“The Negro Speaks of Rivers”

By: Langston Hughes

I’ve known rivers: I’ve known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young. I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep. I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it. I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went down to New Orleans, and I’ve

seen its muddy bosom turn all golden in the sunset.

I’ve known rivers: Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

Hughes, Langston. “The Negro Speaks of Rivers.” Poetry Foundation, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/44428/the-negro-speaks-of-rivers.