Today, we wanted to honor a giant of humor prose and who better fits that description than Woody Allen? James Thurber. Below, we reprint his classic New Yorker piece, “The Secret Life of Walter Mitty”:

“I’m going to kill myself,” the Commander muttered to himself as he stood on the wobbly chair in his sultry motel room in the middle of this endless lonely Arizona desert. “Jesus. I’m so sad. I’ll just put this noose around my neck and fall into the sweet sleep of forever…”

“Walter! What in Heaven’s name are you doing now?” barked Mrs. Mitty. Walter Mitty woke out of his daydream and looked back at his wife, in the seat beside him, with shocked astonishment. She seemed grossly unfamiliar, like a strange woman who had yelled at him in a crowd. She had gotten back into the car after finishing her hair appointment at the New Milford salon.

“Why do you have that gun to your head?” she asked.

“I’m going to kill myself,” Walter replied.