Being an inspector

Why is it, that my heart rejoices, when I see a pupil blossom into the best shape he could possibly be, keeping his master's words in his heart, waiting to apply them, or when a homemaker blossoms into the best shape she could possibly be, turning an estate into a bastion of beauty and independence, but when I then think about what it means for an inspector to blossom into the best shape he could possibly be, I'm struck by a sudden feeling of incongruence that makes me burst out with laughter?

For make no mistake, it is most fortunate for the world, when an inspector blossoms into the best shape, he could possibly be.

Yet...

I think it is, because I'm born of shame. If there was no shame, where there is pride, I would not be.

Those other growths fill you with pride, my growth leads to an ever clearer sense of shame.

I am the yew in the garden: You have to suck the flesh from the berries to find them sweet, naively chewed, you'll find them to the utmost bitter.

Now, when the harvest comes, those who bear treasures can bring them into the edifice of my observations and digesting them they won't be harmed, which I know and knowing too the torment that bad teachings cause, I do feel proud of that. I haven't produced weapons to the order of anybody's vanity. I've written about duties, hopes and limitations.