James 1 Tiffany James Mr.

McCauley Foundations of Criticism 12 September 2013 Reader Response After reading both short stories, I have decided to comment on The Story of An Hour. When I first started reading it, I did not feel anything. The story had no affect on me; it was like reading a drab boring textbook. However, when I got to the first line of the second paragraph, it was her sister Josephine who told her, in broken sentences; veiled hints that revealed in half concealing, I felt as if the sister was stupid. I felt this way because if someone was telling me that someone I loved had died, I would want them to just come out with it, instead of treating me like a baby. And I understand that Mrs. Mallard has heart problems, but still I felt what her sister did was unnecessary. That brings me to my second point. In the second paragraph, the readers meet Richards, the husbands friend who had heard the news first, it was he who had been in the newspaper office when intelligence of the rail road disaster was received, with Brently Mallards name leading the list of killed. He had only taken the time to assure himself of its truth by a second telegram. This irritated me because I feel as if Richards should have been completely certain that his friend was dead before running to tell Mallards wife. Then in the third paragraph it says, 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 sisters arms. This made me think of the fact I am the type of person who would not cry right away when hearing that kind of news. And while that thought

James 2 came to mind it brought me back to the time when I was in the sixth grade and my grandmother had just died. When she died I did not cry, but instead internalized it all and let my feelings out through writing instead of liquid falling from my eyes and mucus dripping from my nose. Later in the story while Mrs. Mallard is in her room alone something comes upon her and, 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 had followed it went from her eyes. When I first read these lines it did not click in my head what she was doing. Not until I read, 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. That is when I realized that she was no longer grief stricken over her husbands death and I wondered how she had gotten over it so quickly. However when I read this line, Free! Body and soul free! she kept whispering, it struck me that I had read this story before. Several times before actually, but for the life of me I could not remember how the story ended. I guess it was not that remember able in my eyes. Then at the end, the last line that caught my attention was, someone was opening the door with a latchkey, and realized that Mr. Mallard was not actually dead, but very much alive. And that his wife had not died of joy, but of the future joy that she had lost.