Which is the best way to rewrite the sentence below?

some realistic fiction discusses relevant social issues what important social issue does Kate chopins The story of an hour prima

raketka [301]

some realistic fiction discusses relevant social issues what important social issue does Kate chopins The story of an hour primarily focus on is given below

Explanation:

“The Story of an Hour” is Kate Chopin’s short story about the thoughts of a woman after she is told that her husband has died in an accident. The story first appeared in Vogue in 1894 and is today one of Chopin’s most popular works.

“The Story of an Hour” characters

Louise Mallard
Brently Mallard: husband of Louise
Josephine: sister of Louise
Richards: friend of Brently Mallard

“The Story of an Hour” time and place

The story is set in the late nineteenth century in the Mallard residence, the home of Brently and Louise Mallard.

“The Story of an Hour” themes

Readers and scholars often focus on the idea of freedom in “The Story of an Hour,” on selfhood, self-fulfillment, the meaning of love, or what Chopin calls the “possession of self-assertion.”

When Kate Chopin’s “The Story of an Hour” was written and published

It was written on April 19, 1894, and first published in Vogue on December 6, 1894, under the title “The Dream of an Hour,” one of nineteen Kate Chopin stories that Vogue published. It was reprinted in St. Louis Life on January 5, 1895. The St. Louis Life version includes several changes in the text.

You can find out when Kate Chopin wrote each of her short stories and when and where each was first published.

What critics and scholars say about “The Story of an Hour” -A great deal has been written about this story for many years. The story is “one of feminism’s sacred texts,” Susan Cahill writing in 1975, when readers were first discovering Kate Chopin.

“Love has been, for Louise and others, the primary purpose of life, but through her new perspective, Louise comprehends that ‘love, the unsolved mystery’ counts for very little. . . . Love is not a substitute for selfhood; indeed, selfhood is love’s precondition.” Barbara C. Ewell

“Mrs. Mallard will grieve for the husband who had loved her but will eventually revel in the ‘monstrous joy’ of self-fulfillment, beyond ideological strictures and the repressive effects of love.” Mary Papke

Kate Chopin “was a life-long connoisseur of rickety marriages, and all her wisdom is on display in her piercing analysis of this thoroughly average one.” Christopher Benfey

“In the mid- to late 1890s, Vogue was the place where Chopin published her most daring and surprising stories [‘The Story of an Hour’ and eighteen others]. . . . Because she had Vogue as a market—and a well-paying one—Kate Chopin wrote the critical, ironic, brilliant stories about women for which she is known today. Alone among magazines of the 1890s, Vogue published fearless and truthful portrayals of women’s lives.” Emily Toth

Her husband’s death forces Louise to reconcile her “inside” and “outside” consciousness—a female double consciousness within Louise’s thoughts. Though constrained by biological determinism, social conditioning, and marriage, Louise reclaims her own life—but at a price. Her death is the result of the complications in uniting both halves of her world. Angelyn Mitchell

Louise Mallard’s death isn’t caused by her joy at seeing her husband’s return or by her sudden realization that his death has granted her autonomy. She dies as a result of the strain she is under. The irony of her death is that even if her sudden epiphany is freeing, her autonomy is empty, because she has no place in society. Mark Cunningham

Louise’s death is the culmination of her being “an immature and shallow egotist,” Lawrence Berkove says. He focuses on the scene in Louise’s bedroom and points out how unrealistic her notion of love is. Her death, he writes, is the only place that will offer her the absolute freedom she desires.

7 0

3 years ago

This is an example of which literary term?

emmasim [6.3K]

D. The wind is given human characteristics as if it were alive.

4 0

3 years ago

Which represents the solution(s) of the system of equations, y = x2 – 2x – 15 and y = 8x – 40? Determine the solution set algebr

slamgirl [31]

Answer: The solution to the system of equations y = x² - 2x - 15 and y = 8x - 40 is (5,0).

Explanation: Substitute y = 8x - 40 in y = x² - 2x - 15

8x - 40 = x² - 2x - 15

Identify the like terms

x² - 2x - 8x - 15 + 40 = 0

Evaluate the equation

x² - 10x + 25 = 0

Factorize the equation

(x - 5)(x - 5) = 0

Solve for x

x - 5 = 0 and x - 5 = 0

Solving for x gives

x = 5

Substitute x = 5 in y = 8x - 40

y = 8(5) - 40

y = 0

5 0

2 years ago

What is the meaning of the figurative language "mad like a dog"?

madreJ [45]

Answer:

b

Explanation:

"mad like a dog" means angry

4 0

3 years ago

Write a narrative essay about overcoming a challenge/ 3 paragraph's

Ainat [17]

Fire! Was I no longer the beloved daughter of nature, whisperer of trees? Knee-high rubber boots, camouflage, bug spray—I wore the garb and perfume of a proud wild woman, yet there I was, hunched over the pathetic pile of stubborn sticks, utterly stumped, on the verge of tears. As a child, I had considered myself a kind of rustic princess, a cradler of spiders and centipedes, who was serenaded by mourning doves and chickadees, who could glide through tick-infested meadows and emerge Lyme-free. I knew the cracks of the earth like the scars on my own rough palms. Yet here I was, ten years later, incapable of performing the most fundamental outdoor task: I could not, for the life of me, start a fire.

Furiously I rubbed the twigs together—rubbed and rubbed until shreds of skin flaked from my fingers. No smoke. The twigs were too young, too sticky-green; I tossed them away with a shower of curses, and began tearing through the underbrush in search of a more flammable collection. My efforts were fruitless. Livid, I bit a rejected twig, determined to prove that the forest had spurned me, offering only young, wet bones that would never burn. But the wood cracked like carrots between my teeth—old, brittle, and bitter. Roaring and nursing my aching palms, I retreated to the tent, where I sulked and awaited the jeers of my family. Rattling their empty worm cans and reeking of fat fish, my brother and cousins swaggered into the campsite. Immediately, they noticed the minor stick massacre by the fire pit and called to me, their deep voices already sharp with contempt.

“Where’s the fire, Princess Clara?” they taunted. “Having some trouble?” They prodded me with the ends of the chewed branches and, with a few effortless scrapes of wood on rock, sparked a red and roaring flame. My face burned long after I left the fire pit. The camp stank of salmon and shame.

In the tent, I pondered my failure. Was I so dainty? Was I that incapable? I thought of my hands, how calloused and capable they had been, how tender and smooth they had become. It had been years since I’d kneaded mud between my fingers; instead of scaling a white pine, I’d practiced scales on my piano, my hands softening into those of a musician—fleshy and sensitive. And I’d gotten glasses, having grown horrifically nearsighted; long nights of dim lighting and thick books had done this. I couldn’t remember the last time I had lain down on a hill, barefaced, and seen the stars without having to squint. Crawling along the edge of the tent, a spider confirmed my transformation—he disgusted me, and I felt an overwhelming urge to squash him.

Yet, I realized I hadn’t really changed—I had only shifted perspective. I still eagerly explored new worlds, but through poems and prose rather than pastures and puddles. I’d grown to prefer the boom of a bass over that of a bullfrog, learned to coax a different kind of fire from wood, having developed a burn for writing rhymes and scrawling hypotheses.

That night, I stayed up late with my journal and wrote about the spider I had decided not to kill. I had tolerated him just barely, only shrieking when he jumped—it helped to watch him decorate the corners of the tent with his delicate webs, knowing that he couldn’t start fires, either. When the night grew cold and the embers died, my words still smoked—my hands burned from all that scrawling—and even when I fell asleep, the ideas kept sparking—I was on fire, always on fire.

3 0

2 years ago