“The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” takes place in one short winter afternoon and shows us the fantasies of an unhappy man. The story begins with Mitty and his wife driving through slushy roads into town, as Mitty imagines he is the commander of a Navy hydroplane and his wife admonishes him to drive more slowly. From there we follow along on Mitty’s mini-adventures of the mind throughout his day of errands, as he becomes a famous surgeon, a defendant in a trial, a skilled dogfighter in Europe, and, at the last, a condemned man up against a firing squad—anything to escape his wife’s nagging and his own uneventful life.
With this story, what could have easily been a confusing or disconcerting work has instead proven itself to be involved and clever. It was very well written, with perfectly timed and flawless transitions between reality and fantasy; for example, soon after Mrs. Mitty mentions Dr. Renshaw, Mitty drives by a hospital, which invokes a fantasy about being a skilled physician. Later, he hears a newsboy shouting out headlines about a current trial, and Mitty imagines he is involved in a major case as a rogue defendant. And so on. The wordplay is always perfect, the details always tie in nicely to the rest of the story, and the unity is always impeccable.
Having said that, I didn’t care much for this story. I agree that it is indeed a well-crafted piece of work, and I am not, as some modern feminists seem to be, insulted or offended by reading it. I think that the story is timeless, which is why it is still widely read and included in anthologies, but it seemed a bit too commonplace to be really provocative. Other enduring subjects, such as love, hate, conflict, etc., are about the deepest emotions, which we can all relate to—the “human condition.” To me, the subject of husbands and wives nagging and/or ignoring each other, while entertaining to the rest of us, is not truly worthy of being called “great.”
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