In the Secret Life of Walter Mitty Which Phrase.
Also constitute in: Dictionary, Wikipedia.
An unremarkable or ineffectual person who has fantasies or delusions of grandeur. A reference to the titular character in James Thurber’s short story The Secret Life of Walter Mitty.
He has been described as the Walter Mitty of the political world, a complete nobody who has somehow contrived a career out of standing on a soapbox and protesting against anything the mainstream politicians exercise.
My male parent worked for the same visitor for over 50 years and never even left his dwelling house land, but he was always something of a Walter Mitty, dreaming nearly a life of adventure.
Farlex Dictionary of Idioms. © 2022 Farlex, Inc, all rights reserved.
A person, more often than not quite ordinary or ineffectual, who indulges in fantastic daydreams of personal triumphs. For example, He’s a Walter Mitty well-nigh riding in a rodeo but is really agape of horses. This term comes from James Thurber’s short story, The Hugger-mugger Life of Walter Mitty (1939), describing simply such a graphic symbol.
The American Heritage® Dictionary of Idioms past Christine Ammer. Copyright © 2003, 1997 by The Christine Ammer 1992 Trust. Published by Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.
- empty adapt
- delusions of grandeur
- Hamlet without the prince
Life in a Well
Feb 18, 2016
1 min read
four. “Beautiful things don’t ask for attention.”
3. “Life is well-nigh courage and going into the unknown.”
2. “I just live by the ABC’due south — Adventurous. Brave. Creative.”
- “To see the world, things dangerous to come up to, to meet behind walls, draw closer, to find each other, and to feel. That is the purpose of life.”
Illustration by Rebekka Dunlap
“We’re going through!” The Commander’s phonation was like thin ice breaking. He wore his full-clothes uniform, with the heavily braided white cap pulled downwards rakishly over i cold gray eye. “We tin’t make it, sir. Information technology’s spoiling for a hurricane, if you ask me.” “I’m non request you, Lieutenant Berg,” said the Commander. “Throw on the power lights! Rev her up to 8,500! Nosotros’re going through!” The pounding of the cylinders increased: ta-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. The Commander stared at the water ice forming on the pilot window. He walked over and twisted a row of complicated dials. “Switch on No. 8 auxiliary!” he shouted. “Switch on No. viii auxiliary!” repeated Lieutenant Berg. “Full strength in No. iii turret!” shouted the Commander. “Full strength in No. 3 turret!” The coiffure, angle to their various tasks in the huge, hurtling 8-engined Navy hydroplane, looked at each other and grinned. “The Old Man’ll become the states through,” they said to one another. “The Old Homo ain’t afraid of Hell!” . . .
“Not so fast! You lot’re driving besides fast!” said Mrs. Mitty. “What are you lot driving so fast for?”
“Hmm?” said Walter Mitty. He looked at his married woman, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange adult female who had yelled at him in a crowd. “You lot were up to fifty-five,” she said. “You know I don’t similar to go more than forty. Y’all were upwards to l-five.” Walter Mitty drove on toward Waterbury in silence, the roaring of the SN202 through the worst tempest in twenty years of Navy flying fading in the remote, intimate airways of his heed. “Y’all’re tensed upwardly again,” said Mrs. Mitty. “Information technology’s 1 of your days. I wish you’d permit Dr. Renshaw look y’all over.”
Walter Mitty stopped the motorcar in front of the building where his wife went to take her hair washed. “Recollect to get those overshoes while I’m having my hair done,” she said. “I don’t need overshoes,” said Mitty. She put her mirror back into her bag. “We’ve been all through that,” she said, getting out of the car. “Yous’re not a young human being any longer.” He raced the engine a little. “Why don’t yous wear your gloves? Have you lost your gloves?” Walter Mitty reached in a pocket and brought out the gloves. He put them on, just after she had turned and gone into the edifice and he had driven on to a crimson light, he took them off again. “Pick it up, brother!” snapped a cop as the light changed, and Mitty hastily pulled on his gloves and lurched ahead. He drove effectually the streets frantically for a time, and then he drove past the hospital on his manner to the parking lot.
. . . “It’s the millionaire banker, Wellington McMillan,” said the pretty nurse. “Yes?” said Walter Mitty, removing his gloves slowly. “Who has the case?” “Dr. Renshaw and Dr. Benbow, merely in that location are 2 specialists hither, Dr. Remington from New York and Dr. Pritchard-Mitford from London. He flew over.” A door opened down a long, absurd corridor and Dr. Renshaw came out. He looked distraught and haggard. “Hello, Mitty,” he said. “Nosotros’re having the devil’due south own time with McMillan, the millionaire banker and close personal friend of Roosevelt. Obstreosis of the ductal tract. Tertiary. Wish you’d take a look at him.” “Glad to,” said Mitty.
In the operating room there were whispered introductions: “Dr. Remington, Dr. Mitty. Dr. Pritchard-Mitford, Dr. Mitty.” “I’ve read your book on streptothricosis,” said Pritchard-Mitford, shaking hands. “A brilliant performance, sir.” “Thank you,” said Walter Mitty. “Didn’t know yous were in u.s.a., Mitty,” grumbled Remington. “Dress-down to Newcastle, bringing Mitford and me upwardly here for a third.” “You are very kind,” said Mitty. A huge, complicated motorcar, connected to the operating table, with many tubes and wires, began at this moment to go pocketa-pocketa-pocketa. “The new anaesthetizer is giving way!” shouted an interne. “At that place is no one in the East who knows how to ready it!” “Quiet, man!” said Mitty, in a depression, cool phonation. He sprang to the machine, which was now going pocketa-pocketa-queep-pocketa-queep. He began fingering delicately a row of glistening dials. “Give me a fountain pen!” he snapped. Someone handed him a fountain pen. He pulled a faulty piston out of the auto and inserted the pen in its identify. “That will concord for ten minutes,” he said. “Get on with the functioning.” A nurse hurried over and whispered to Renshaw, and Mitty saw the man turn stake. “Coreopsis has fix in,” said Renshaw nervously. “If you would take over, Mitty?” Mitty looked at him and at the craven figure of Benbow, who drank, and at the grave, uncertain faces of the two great specialists. “If you wish,” he said. They slipped a white gown on him; he adjusted a mask and drew on thin gloves; nurses handed him shining . . .
“Back information technology up, Mac! Await out for that Buick!” Walter Mitty jammed on the brakes. “Incorrect lane, Mac,” said the parking-lot attendant, looking at Mitty closely. “Gee. Yeh,” muttered Mitty. He began charily to dorsum out of the lane marked “Exit Merely.” “Exit her sit there,” said the bellboy. “I’ll put her away.” Mitty got out of the machine. “Hey, ameliorate leave the cardinal.” “Oh,” said Mitty, handing the human the ignition key. The attendant vaulted into the machine, backed it up with insolent skill, and put it where information technology belonged.
They’re so damn cocky, idea Walter Mitty, walking along Primary Street; they think they know everything. Once he had tried to take his bondage off, outside New Milford, and he had got them wound effectually the axles. A man had had to come out in a wrecking automobile and unwind them, a young, grin garageman. Since and so Mrs. Mitty always made him drive to a garage to have the chains taken off. The next fourth dimension, he thought, I’ll wear my right arm in a sling; they won’t grin at me so. I’ll have my right arm in a sling and they’ll see I couldn’t possibly accept the chains off myself. He kicked at the slush on the sidewalk. “Overshoes,” he said to himself, and he began looking for a shoe store.
When he came out into the street again, with the overshoes in a box under his arm, Walter Mitty began to wonder what the other affair was his wife had told him to become. She had told him, twice, before they set out from their house for Waterbury. In a way he hated these weekly trips to town—he was ever getting something wrong. Kleenex, he thought, Squibb’s, razor blades? No. Toothpaste, toothbrush, bicarbonate, carborundum, initiative and referendum? He gave it upward. But she would remember it. “Where’s the what’s-its-name?” she would enquire. “Don’t tell me you forgot the what’s-its-name.” A newsboy went past shouting something about the Waterbury trial.
. . . “Perhaps this will refresh your retentivity.” The Commune Attorney of a sudden thrust a heavy automatic at the repose figure on the witness stand up. “Take you ever seen this earlier?” Walter Mitty took the gun and examined it expertly. “This is my Webley-Vickers 50.80,” he said calmly. An excited buzz ran around the courtroom. The Gauge rapped for guild. “You are a cleft shot with any sort of firearms, I believe?” said the Commune Attorney, insinuatingly. “Objection!” shouted Mitty’southward attorney. “Nosotros have shown that the defendant could not have fired the shot. We accept shown that he wore his right arm in a sling on the night of the fourteenth of July.” Walter Mitty raised his hand briefly and the bickering attorneys were stilled. “With whatever known make of gun,” he said evenly, “I could have killed Gregory Fitzhurst at three hundred feet with my left manus.” Pandemonium broke loose in the court. A woman’due south scream rose above the bedlam and suddenly a lovely, dark-haired daughter was in Walter Mitty’s arms. The District Chaser struck at her savagely. Without rising from his chair, Mitty permit the human being take it on the indicate of the chin. “You miserable cur!” . . .
“Puppy biscuit,” said Walter Mitty. He stopped walking and the buildings of Waterbury rose up out of the misty court and surrounded him over again. A woman who was passing laughed. “He said ‘Puppy beige,’ ” she said to her companion. “That man said ‘Puppy biscuit’ to himself.” Walter Mitty hurried on. He went into an A. & P., non the start i he came to but a smaller i farther up the street. “I want some biscuit for small, young dogs,” he said to the clerk. “Whatsoever special brand, sir?” The greatest pistol shot in the world idea a moment. “It says ‘Puppies Bark for It’ on the box,” said Walter Mitty.
His wife would exist through at the barber’s in fifteen minutes, Mitty saw in looking at his watch, unless they had problem drying it; sometimes they had problem drying it. She didn’t like to go to the hotel start; she would want him to exist at that place waiting for her as usual. He found a big leather chair in the foyer, facing a window, and he put the overshoes and the puppy biscuit on the floor beside it. He picked up an former copy of Liberty and sank down into the chair. “Tin can Federal republic of germany Conquer the World Through the Air?” Walter Mitty looked at the pictures of bombing planes and of ruined streets.
. . . “The cannonading has got the wind up in young Raleigh, sir,” said the sergeant. Captain Mitty looked up at him through touselled hair. “Get him to bed,” he said wearily. “With the others. I’ll fly alone.” “Just you tin’t, sir,” said the sergeant anxiously. “It takes two men to handle that bomber and the Archies are pounding hell out of the air. Von Richtman’s circus is between here and Saulier.” “Somebody’s got to get that armament dump,” said Mitty. “I’m going over. Spot of brandy?” He poured a drink for the sergeant and one for himself. War thundered and whined effectually the dugout and battered at the door. There was a rending of wood and splinters flew through the room. “A bit of a nearly thing,” said Captain Mitty carelessly. “The box barrage is closing in,” said the sergeant. “Nosotros only live once, Sergeant,” said Mitty, with his faint, fleeting smile. “Or do we?” He poured another brandy and tossed information technology off. “I never see a man could concur his brandy like you, sir,” said the sergeant. “Begging your pardon, sir.” Captain Mitty stood upward and strapped on his huge Webley-Vickers automated. “It’s xl kilometres through hell, sir,” said the sergeant. Mitty finished i final brandy. “Later all,” he said softly, “what isn’t?” The pounding of the cannon increased; at that place was the rat-tat-tatting of automobile guns, and from somewhere came the menacing pocketa-pocketa-pocketa of the new flame-throwers. Walter Mitty walked to the door of the dugout humming “Auprès de Ma Blonde.” He turned and waved to the sergeant. “Cheerio!” he said. . . .
Something struck his shoulder. “I’ve been looking all over this hotel for you lot,” said Mrs. Mitty. “Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How did yous expect me to find you?” “Things close in,” said Walter Mitty vaguely. “What?” Mrs. Mitty said. “Did you get the what’southward-its-proper name? The puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?” “Overshoes,” said Mitty. “Couldn’t you accept put them on in the store?” “I was thinking,” said Walter Mitty. “Does it ever occur to yous that I am sometimes thinking?” She looked at him. “I’m going to have your temperature when I go you home,” she said.
They went out through the revolving doors that made a faintly cheeky whistling sound when you pushed them. It was two blocks to the parking lot. At the drugstore on the corner she said, “Wait hither for me. I forgot something. I won’t be a minute.” She was more than a infinitesimal. Walter Mitty lighted a cigarette. It began to rain, rain with sleet in it. He stood upwards against the wall of the drugstore, smoking. . . . He put his shoulders back and his heels together. “To hell with the handkerchief,” said Walter Mitty scornfully. He took one concluding elevate on his cigarette and snapped it abroad. And then, with that faint, fleeting smile playing most his lips, he faced the firing squad; cock and motionless, proud and disdainful, Walter Mitty the Undefeated, inscrutable to the last. ♦
What is the saying Walter Mitty?
Walter Mitty in British English (ˈwɔːltə ˈmɪtɪ ) breezy.
a person who imagines that their life is full of excitement and adventures when it is in fact only ordinary. He’due south a fleck of a Walter Mitty grapheme.
Where does the phrase Walter Mitty come from?
Did yous know? The original “Walter Mitty” was
created by humorist James Thurber, who wrote the famous story “The Hugger-mugger Life of Walter Mitty.”
In Walter’due south existent life, he is a reticent, henpecked proofreader befuddled by everyday life. Merely in his fantasies, Walter imagines himself as diverse daring and heroic characters.
Is Obstreosis of the ductal tract a real thing?
Mitty is not actually a skilled surgeon, so a lot of the medical terms are made up:
“obstreosis” is not a existent word; “duct” is “a bodily passage or tube” and “tract” is “a organisation of body parts that serve some detail purpose” so individually, they could refer vaguely to the body; “tertiary” has a lot of syllables …
Is Walter Mitty a true story?
Walter Jackson Mitty is a
fictional graphic symbol
in James Thurber’s first brusque story “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”, first published in The New Yorker on March eighteen, 1939, and in volume grade in My World—and Welcome to It in 1942. Thurber loosely based the character, a daydreamer, on his friend Walter Mithoff.
In the Secret Life of Walter Mitty Which Phrase