“My friend Borges once described a Zahir, which in Buenos Aires in 1939 was a coin, a ten-centavo piece, with the letters ‘N’ and ‘T’ and the numeral ‘2’ scratched crudely in the obverse. Whomsoever saw this coin was consumed by it, in a manner of speaking, and could think of nothing else, until at last their personality ceased to exist, and they were reduced to a babbling corpse with nothing to talk about but the coin, the coin, always the coin.”

  • Borges, El Zahir

The Zahir Review is run by Brian Ng and Alex Karsavin.


We’re looking for works that propose experimental infrastructures that transform and question existing ideals while threading constellations among commons. We’re open to poetry, critical prose, speculative fiction, aberrant protocols, files blessed and cursed: better, yet, things that fit none of the above. Send them to ngwingkui@gmail.com. Submissions are rolling.