Last June I watched “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty” with friends. Here was a man, like me, who daydreamed excessively. I wish I could say that Hollywood made a laughable exaggeration of how epic daydreams could be, but I'm afraid they were fairly comparable to mine. Although I don't drift away into a reverie in the middle of conversations or when on the job, I do drift away—far, far away beyond the restraints of this mortal world or time. The original short story portrayed Mitty as a noble Everyman who fought the banality of his life with the only weapon he had on hand: his imagination. It celebrated his struggle to rise above subservience and become a leader even if only within his mind. The movie featuring Ben Stiller took a different approach. [1] Like the short story, Mitty here was a subservient man with only his daydreams to give his life a semblance of meaning. The effect over all, however, was pathetic, not noble. Going places and doing things were activities...
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