This is one of the few poems I have outgrown almost entirely. Here are four bitterly sarcastic verses written with a fever bordering on hatred; at the time I wrote this poem, I held in my mind a notion (partially true) that the word "Interesting" carried with it a piece of Satan himself. For a long time, "Interesting" signified detachment from Life, an emphasis on "observation" rather than experience. I pictured in my mind a sociologist, unmarried, laughing at his friend who proclaimed himself to be in love with his wife, forgoing the beauty in art and seeing only the cultural implications, unable to sympathize with victims of travesty and feeling only a detached interest in the political outcomes of their sufferings. For a short period of time, this "Interested Man" was the subject of Dante Alighieri's quote: "The darkest places in hell are reserved for those who maintain their neutrality in times of moral crisis." I have since learned that "Interest" in life is a beautiful thing; there are, after all, so many things to be interested in. Without interest, there would be nothing. The true victim of my anger was apathy itself, which I mistakenly assumed to be found in the usage of "Interesting." Still, I maintain, there will always be an unsettling aura of moral ambiguity surrounding those who proclaim a World War to be first and foremost, "Interesting."