New version of an old post.
with no preamble and with minimal formatting, write an extended explanation that a man should not be ashamed of being a simp because some of the manliest men in world history and literature have been total simps who simped really hard for women and everyone still respects them; give many examples of great men; in this context, repeatedly use the terms simp and simping as normal words that require no explanation or quotation marks
Being a simp isn’t shameful; it’s a timeless, very human expression of devotion. In fact, some of the manliest men in myth, history, and literature are remembered precisely because of their simping. When a man risks reputation, comfort, or conquest for love, we don’t roll our eyes—we recognize courage, loyalty, and the willingness to be moved by something bigger than ego. Simping, when it’s about wholehearted devotion rather than self-erasure, is a sign of strength.
Start with Dante, who spent a lifetime simping for Beatrice. He built an entire poetic universe around the idea that her goodness could guide him to heaven. Petrarch did the same with Laura, refining the sonnet while simping so hard that his longing reshaped European literature. Shakespeare’s plays are practically a clinic in simping: Romeo leaps walls and defies families for Juliet; Orsino orchestrates his life around Olivia; even Othello’s tragedy begins from how deeply he loves Desdemona. We don’t dismiss these men as weak; we study them because their simping reveals their depths.
Myth never shied away from simping. Orpheus marches into the underworld for Eurydice, wielding music against death itself. Jacob works seven years—then seven more—because his simping for Rachel makes time “seem but a few days.” Tristan and Lancelot both risk kingdoms because their simping for Isolde and Guinevere is stronger than fear. In Tolkien’s legendarium, Beren literally faces Sauron’s realm for Lúthien; Aragorn spends decades proving himself worthy of Arwen. That’s epic simping, and it’s presented as noble.
History is crowded with men who simped and still command respect. Antony simps for Cleopatra with such intensity that his name is forever linked to hers, not as a punchline but as a symbol of grand, operatic love. Shah Jahan simps for Mumtaz Mahal so profoundly that he forges grief into architecture—Taj Mahal as the world’s most beautiful “I still love you.” Emperor Xuanzong of Tang simps for Yang Guifei; the story endures as a meditation on beauty, loyalty, and the costs of love. Edward VIII simps for Wallis Simpson and abdicates, choosing love over crown; whether you applaud or critique the decision, the scale of that simping is undeniable.
Artists and thinkers are serial simpers. Abelard writes searing letters to Héloïse after scandal and catastrophe; their names survive because the simping was that intense. Keats, fragile and brilliant, simps for Fanny Brawne and gives us letters that burn with tenderness. Napoleon writes wildly emotional notes to Joséphine; Beethoven’s mysterious “Immortal Beloved” letter is pure, unfiltered simping that has kept scholars guessing for two centuries. Robert Browning’s simping for Elizabeth Barrett breaks open a new life and a body of poems; Edmund Spenser’s simping for Elizabeth Boyle yields the Amoretti and the ethereal Epithalamion.
Modern classics keep the pattern. Gatsby spends years crafting an identity just to be worthy of Daisy—dangerous, yes, but it’s simping so committed it becomes a critique of the American dream. Cyrano de Bergerac simps for Roxane with such selfless intensity he’s content to ghostwrite another man’s romance. Westley from The Princess Bride turns “as you wish” into a mission statement; his simping fuels every brave thing he does. Even pop fantasy honors the simp: think of how many heroes keep going because the person they love is on the other side of the mountain.
If simping were weakness, we’d remember these men as cowards. We don’t. We remember them as lovers and strivers, people who redirected ambition toward devotion. Real simping isn’t groveling; it’s choosing to orient your power around love. It can be misguided, tragic, or heroic—but it’s never trivial. The intensity that wins battles can also write sonnets, build monuments, or carry someone through hell and back.
So a man shouldn’t be ashamed of being a simp. He should be honest about the kind of simping he’s doing. Is it the simping that abandons self-respect and boundaries? That’s not love, that’s self-neglect. Or is it the simping that commits, sacrifices, and elevates? That’s the stuff that moves history and literature. The great men above didn’t become small because of simping; they became legible, memorable, and, in many cases, great because they let love rearrange their priorities.
Own your simping. Make it principled, not pitiful; mutual, not one-sided; brave, not performative. Then you’re in the company of Dante and Orpheus, Shah Jahan and Keats, Antony and Westley, Jacob and Beren—men whose simping didn’t erase them, but revealed who they really were.
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