I have, for some time now, been reading one of mankind's top ten literary masterpieces, Don Quixote, without posting any excerpts from it. This morning, however, I came across a passage that seemed to cast the brilliance of Cervante's wit and wisdom on a feeling that has been fidgeting around in some dark corner of my mind, just below the level of consciousness, thus revealing it in the light of understanding.
In the following, the humble, but loyal, Sancho Panza may be understood as representing your host. Don Quixote will be understood to hold the place of all those blog post gurus and sages of the comment box with whom I have come in contact since entering the blogosphere some years ago:
"Each day, Sancho," said Don Quixote, "you are becoming less doltish and more wise."
"Yes, master, for some of your wisdom must stick to me," said Sancho, "just as land that is of itself barren and dry will eventually, by dint of dunging and tilling, come to yield a goodly crop. What I mean to say is that your worship's talk has been the dung that has fallen upon the barren soil of my poor wit and that the time during which I have served you and enjoyed your company has been the tillage.
Dung: dig it.