Two men, using no more than fists and feet, pummel another man’s legs. The man who’s receiving the beatdown is on a couch partially covered in dirt from the heels of his platform shoes, which he thrust into the expensive, milk-colored cushions. When the two men are finished, their victim falls off of the couch and crawls away, screaming, “They should have never gave you niggas money!”

— Black Buck’s Mateo Askaripour: ‘I didn’t hesitate on injecting humour,’ Big Issue

I’d eaten three Van’s waffles almost every single day for about two years.

— Author Mateo Askaripour Has a Waffle Routine, Grub Street

I understand this instinct to adapt and reinvent; to feel as though if you do not change, then you will suffer a zombie-like existence where you’re walking and talking like a person, but are in reality only playing a part that was written by the world’s socially-constructed standards.

— The Stylish Literary Legacy Of Mr James Baldwin, Mr. Porter

Nabokov. Faulkner. Steinbeck. Hemingway. Orwell. Heller. Huxley. Fitzgerald. Vonnegut. Dostoevsky. Camus. Milton. As I dragged my finger from title to title, there was something that connected Lolita to East of Eden to The Plague to A Farewell to Arms to This Side of Paradise, but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

— Toward an Expanded Canon of Black Literature, Lit Hub

Brinkley is a writer whose versatility knows no boundaries. He can make you laugh, cry, contemplate life’s deepest questions, remember what it was like to be a child, and feel the warmth, or chill, of your own family history.

— What Does It Mean to Be a Witness?, New York Times Book Review

Twenty-one seconds in and the screen goes black. Two seconds later, a quote appears: “If Africans do not tell their own stories, Africa will soon disappear.” Four seconds later, you see the author of the quote, Ousmane Sembene.

— Through Films for Black Audiences, Ousmane Sembene Spoke to All, Lit Hub

I remember feeling as if I was about to vomit.

— Move Over, Willy Loman—Literature Needs a New Salesman, Electric Literature

New York. Do you smell that? That’s right. It’s the unmistakable aroma of hot garbage, weed, urine, pretzels and, you guessed it, honey-roasted nuts.

— Novelist Mr Mateo Askaripour’s Insider Guide to New York City, Mr. Porter

You’d have to visit Cirque du Soleil to see someone juggle as much as Han with such effortless dexterity and tenderness.

— They Lived the American Dream, Until the Ghost Turned Up, New York Times Book Review

Let’s talk about lobsters.

— In Favor of Speed: Write Fast, Fix Later, Lit Hub

Eight nights. A Christian God supposedly made the Earth in less, but for eight nights in 1977 the world was baptized in the truth of how our nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all, came to be.

— Watching Roots in the Age of Trump, Mr. Porter

Malcolm said a lot, and I ate up every last crumb of his words, hungering for more. But what sustained me most was his ability to turn struggles into symbols that struck my soul more than any remastered, repetitive, and rephrased depiction of the fight for equal rights could.

— Falling in Love with Malcolm X—and His Mastery of Metaphor, Mr. Porter

In this modern age of madness, we’re so often made to carry more than we believe we can manage.

— Bearing ‘The Weight’ of Feeling Alone, New York Times Book Review

You’re on a train when you receive a text from a friend you haven’t seen in almost two years.

— Why We Write About Our Oldest Wounds, Lit Hub