So John Maxwell Coetzee is reclusive and media- and audience-shy. Says this article.
So were the following authors:
J.D.Salinger (author of "Catcher in the Rye"). He cut off all contact with the outside world when he was in his forties.
Thomas Harris (author of the "Silence of the Lambs" series). He was painfully shy and would avoid all contact with his fans and members of the press.
I don't know if it is the fame their books bring that makes them reclusive. After all, there is a limit to the adulation you get from a fickle public. Finding Forrester is a movie based on J.D.Salinger about a reclusive author who retreats into a shell after fame and fortune.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Standing Beside a Bad Salesman in Train
I am not a great admirer of short shirts. (A shirt which when worn looks like the man has borrowed it from his son. It gives a man a general sense of being poorly and inadequately attired.) So, what's the story?
Ahem. There was this short shirt standing beside me in train. What was worse was that the short shirt's midriff was bulging out like a huge jackfruit from below the short shirt and the jeans had descended to the nether regions of the hairy paunch and was hanging like a flag at half mast below. Phew! This short-shirt was making conversation on the cell phone. He is so close I could even hear the other party's conversation. His hand was on my chest and he was shifting about, all nervous energy.
"Sir, any time I see your number, I give you call, sir." What a lame excuse to call a person! God, some people! Naturally, anybody would be offended. Now, I hear every word he speaks because I am riled, I am steaming all over. Usually I am a very tolerant commuter. But this once I am so chagrined I could extricate my leg from among the profusion of limbs and kick him.
He is some kind of salesman. May be, he is selling insurance. But his clothes doesn't indicate even an iota of a business person.
"Patrose here, sir. How are you, sir? Family all well?"
I could guess the other party wasn't amenable to the conversation. Good. There is silence at the other end. He deserves it. God help him if he didn't know the called party's family personally. Naturally. What if he is unmarried? Divorced? Here was a man probably trying to enquire about the family about which he knew nothing. The conversation is doomed for sure.
"Er... er... thank you, sir," said the short-shirt and hung up, or whatever it is you do on the cellphone.
Then he starts a conversation with another person standing nearby. The conversation is in Malayalam. It takes all types, I guess. God's country has its characters. He produces his visiting card even before he is asked for one. He works in a bank and is selling home loans and is rather desperate about it. Bad, bad, bad salesmanship! May be, before that, he should read this article about phone conversations.
Ahem. There was this short shirt standing beside me in train. What was worse was that the short shirt's midriff was bulging out like a huge jackfruit from below the short shirt and the jeans had descended to the nether regions of the hairy paunch and was hanging like a flag at half mast below. Phew! This short-shirt was making conversation on the cell phone. He is so close I could even hear the other party's conversation. His hand was on my chest and he was shifting about, all nervous energy.
"Sir, any time I see your number, I give you call, sir." What a lame excuse to call a person! God, some people! Naturally, anybody would be offended. Now, I hear every word he speaks because I am riled, I am steaming all over. Usually I am a very tolerant commuter. But this once I am so chagrined I could extricate my leg from among the profusion of limbs and kick him.
He is some kind of salesman. May be, he is selling insurance. But his clothes doesn't indicate even an iota of a business person.
"Patrose here, sir. How are you, sir? Family all well?"
I could guess the other party wasn't amenable to the conversation. Good. There is silence at the other end. He deserves it. God help him if he didn't know the called party's family personally. Naturally. What if he is unmarried? Divorced? Here was a man probably trying to enquire about the family about which he knew nothing. The conversation is doomed for sure.
"Er... er... thank you, sir," said the short-shirt and hung up, or whatever it is you do on the cellphone.
Then he starts a conversation with another person standing nearby. The conversation is in Malayalam. It takes all types, I guess. God's country has its characters. He produces his visiting card even before he is asked for one. He works in a bank and is selling home loans and is rather desperate about it. Bad, bad, bad salesmanship! May be, before that, he should read this article about phone conversations.
Friday, January 28, 2011
"Flacidity and Casualness" - What Makes a Serious Writer?
Geoff Kloske, the head of Riverhead Books, says in this article on Slate.com: "More, I fear, there is a flaccidity and casualness of style that has come from writing habits born out of e-mail and social media."
Is this true, this charge of "flacidity and casualness?" If so, this blogger who has been blogging and writing emails since the invention of the internet is most guilty. Mea Culpa. What makes a serious writer?
Of late I have become a fan of Twitter and have 251 followers on it. They say it is micro blogging. Journalism is literature in a hurry, blogging is journalism in a hurry, and what is Twittering? Is it blogging in a hurry? Seems like it. I don't know most of the people who follow me but my network is growing. I am told some people have millions of followers. Are they essentially friends, fans, or just followers. How does one define a "follower?" Who is he/she? A friend, a former love interest - someone whose name (at one time) you would carve on your school desk or cut on the bark of a tree -, a childhood friend, a family member, what?
I remember when letter writing was an art. I used to write a monthly letter to my parents who were settled in Kerala. My mother used to collect all these letters. When I would go on my annual holiday I would read these letters and get an idea of my state of mind, my turmoil and tumult when I wrote these letters. Now, after her death, nobody (not even I) cared to preserve these letters. They are lost. I had a printed personal letterhead for the purpose. I still have a personal printed letterhead, but I hardly write letters these days. Letters have been replaced by phone calls and emails.
എഴുത്ത് വരാറുണ്ടോ? എഴുത്ത് അയക്കണം, കേട്ടോ?
पहून्च्तेही चिट्टी लिखना. चिट्टी आ रहा है न?
पाहून्च्ल्याच पत्र पाठवा. पत्र येत आहे ना?
"Send a letter soon after you reach," used to be a constant reminder to a traveling relative. "Are letters coming?" used to be another enquiry about a son/husband who has gone to the Persian Gulf for a job. However, now the art of the letter has been lost, and seems irredeemable. When I was in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I used to write to my wife every week. A letter was still a treasured thing as recently as the 1990s. Alas and alack! No more.
One used to put a lot of effort in composing a letter. Those days receiving and reading a letter meant a lot. They would be pored over, smiled over, wept over, and then preserved. It wasn't literature but it was nearly that, the dilettante's effort to imitate the talented writer. We were spectators of the fascinating world of literature. Letters of great people were compiled into books. These days one would rather write emails and spend time on being the writer one admired in childhood. Guess, we have become more ambitious and venal. The thinking seems to be: we have a computer, we know typing (or, pecking), why don't we write a novel, a travelogue, a definitive piece of non-fiction? Today we are participants in the fascinating world of literature, not mere spectators.
Is this a good thing? I don't know. One thing is sure. A lot more people who have laptops are writing novels these days. After all, what does it take? Imagination and typing ability. I felt empathy for a youth who produced a huge tome (he called it a novel) from his bag - he had painstakingly written it and bound it into the form of a book - and called it a "monumental work." He seemed a young chap with a lot of humour in him, but when it came to his, what I may call faux-novel, he was all seriousness. We are all victims of our own deceptions. He doesn't realise that it's them - the apparently unresponsive world so lost in its own contradictions - that should call it "monumental", "seminal" or whatever.
Even I may be misguided in my quest for publishing glory. What the heck, I tried. I will not die without having tried.
Is this true, this charge of "flacidity and casualness?" If so, this blogger who has been blogging and writing emails since the invention of the internet is most guilty. Mea Culpa. What makes a serious writer?
Of late I have become a fan of Twitter and have 251 followers on it. They say it is micro blogging. Journalism is literature in a hurry, blogging is journalism in a hurry, and what is Twittering? Is it blogging in a hurry? Seems like it. I don't know most of the people who follow me but my network is growing. I am told some people have millions of followers. Are they essentially friends, fans, or just followers. How does one define a "follower?" Who is he/she? A friend, a former love interest - someone whose name (at one time) you would carve on your school desk or cut on the bark of a tree -, a childhood friend, a family member, what?
I remember when letter writing was an art. I used to write a monthly letter to my parents who were settled in Kerala. My mother used to collect all these letters. When I would go on my annual holiday I would read these letters and get an idea of my state of mind, my turmoil and tumult when I wrote these letters. Now, after her death, nobody (not even I) cared to preserve these letters. They are lost. I had a printed personal letterhead for the purpose. I still have a personal printed letterhead, but I hardly write letters these days. Letters have been replaced by phone calls and emails.
എഴുത്ത് വരാറുണ്ടോ? എഴുത്ത് അയക്കണം, കേട്ടോ?
पहून्च्तेही चिट्टी लिखना. चिट्टी आ रहा है न?
पाहून्च्ल्याच पत्र पाठवा. पत्र येत आहे ना?
"Send a letter soon after you reach," used to be a constant reminder to a traveling relative. "Are letters coming?" used to be another enquiry about a son/husband who has gone to the Persian Gulf for a job. However, now the art of the letter has been lost, and seems irredeemable. When I was in the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia I used to write to my wife every week. A letter was still a treasured thing as recently as the 1990s. Alas and alack! No more.
One used to put a lot of effort in composing a letter. Those days receiving and reading a letter meant a lot. They would be pored over, smiled over, wept over, and then preserved. It wasn't literature but it was nearly that, the dilettante's effort to imitate the talented writer. We were spectators of the fascinating world of literature. Letters of great people were compiled into books. These days one would rather write emails and spend time on being the writer one admired in childhood. Guess, we have become more ambitious and venal. The thinking seems to be: we have a computer, we know typing (or, pecking), why don't we write a novel, a travelogue, a definitive piece of non-fiction? Today we are participants in the fascinating world of literature, not mere spectators.
Is this a good thing? I don't know. One thing is sure. A lot more people who have laptops are writing novels these days. After all, what does it take? Imagination and typing ability. I felt empathy for a youth who produced a huge tome (he called it a novel) from his bag - he had painstakingly written it and bound it into the form of a book - and called it a "monumental work." He seemed a young chap with a lot of humour in him, but when it came to his, what I may call faux-novel, he was all seriousness. We are all victims of our own deceptions. He doesn't realise that it's them - the apparently unresponsive world so lost in its own contradictions - that should call it "monumental", "seminal" or whatever.
Even I may be misguided in my quest for publishing glory. What the heck, I tried. I will not die without having tried.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
This Matter of Language Writing and Publishing
It could be change in perceptions, it could be damning of the Indian Writer in English (IWE) who are desperately trying to find a foothold. (We who struggle to create in a language that is still alien to us.) Reason? Orhan Pamuk has come out against English fiction as written in countries other than English-speaking countries on the last day of the Jaipur Literary Festival and opines that other languages are ignored. Earlier in the day Salman Rushdie had said in this address almost the same thing (link courtesy Frontline):
"This is it: the prose writing - both fiction and non-fiction - created in this period by Indian writers working in English, is proving to be a stronger and more important body of work than most of what has been produced in the 16 "official languages" of India, the so-called "vernacular languages", during the same time; and, indeed, this new, and still burgeoning, "Indo-Anglian" literature represents perhaps the most valuable contribution India has yet made to the world of books."
Now what is it that makes language writers rue their chosen language of expression? I for one think that Orhan Pamuk is wrong and so is Salman Rushdie.
As regards Rushdie's observation: I speak from my tentative experience of one language of India. Malayalam - my mother tongue - which I speak and read, has a tradition of literature exceeding anything any IWEs have produced. I confess I am a wannabe IWE writer, however, I confess here that the existing body of Malayalam literature far out-weighs and out-shines the body of IWE literature we have yet produced.
For example has any IWE writers produced a dictionary or a grammar book of IWE language? (Here I speak as the great,great, great nephew of the man who wrote the first authoritative grammar book in the Malayalam language. More about Rev. George Mathan on this link.) Or, for that matter a grammar book for IWEs?
People speak and understand their mother tongue better than any another tongue. It's another matter that I am more familiar and conversant with English as I am educated in it. However, my parents put me in a school which taught Malayalam as an add-on language, so I speak and write that language rather well, but not well enough to write in it. My loss. Whenever I can - mostly when I am in Kerala - I pick up a novel or book in Malayalam and I know that it expresses thoughts and feeling much better than English. I find it difficult to express that here, so I will leave it alone.
I would also vouch that language writers find it easy to be accepted and to be translated in India. Most publishing houses encourage translations because they know the books will sell as it has already been tested by the local language reading market.
So, rest assured, dear Mr. Pamuk that language publishing is still strong and will weather whatever storms there are. And dear Rushdie-sirji Indian languages (I have only pointed out the richness of one language) have a collective oeuvre which IWEs cannot match.
"This is it: the prose writing - both fiction and non-fiction - created in this period by Indian writers working in English, is proving to be a stronger and more important body of work than most of what has been produced in the 16 "official languages" of India, the so-called "vernacular languages", during the same time; and, indeed, this new, and still burgeoning, "Indo-Anglian" literature represents perhaps the most valuable contribution India has yet made to the world of books."
Now what is it that makes language writers rue their chosen language of expression? I for one think that Orhan Pamuk is wrong and so is Salman Rushdie.
As regards Rushdie's observation: I speak from my tentative experience of one language of India. Malayalam - my mother tongue - which I speak and read, has a tradition of literature exceeding anything any IWEs have produced. I confess I am a wannabe IWE writer, however, I confess here that the existing body of Malayalam literature far out-weighs and out-shines the body of IWE literature we have yet produced.
For example has any IWE writers produced a dictionary or a grammar book of IWE language? (Here I speak as the great,great, great nephew of the man who wrote the first authoritative grammar book in the Malayalam language. More about Rev. George Mathan on this link.) Or, for that matter a grammar book for IWEs?
People speak and understand their mother tongue better than any another tongue. It's another matter that I am more familiar and conversant with English as I am educated in it. However, my parents put me in a school which taught Malayalam as an add-on language, so I speak and write that language rather well, but not well enough to write in it. My loss. Whenever I can - mostly when I am in Kerala - I pick up a novel or book in Malayalam and I know that it expresses thoughts and feeling much better than English. I find it difficult to express that here, so I will leave it alone.
I would also vouch that language writers find it easy to be accepted and to be translated in India. Most publishing houses encourage translations because they know the books will sell as it has already been tested by the local language reading market.
So, rest assured, dear Mr. Pamuk that language publishing is still strong and will weather whatever storms there are. And dear Rushdie-sirji Indian languages (I have only pointed out the richness of one language) have a collective oeuvre which IWEs cannot match.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Poor Service from Customer Support - How Long Can a Customer Suffer?
Yesterday I dialed SBI card customer support to get a problem resolved. I have a dread of using Interactive Voice Recording (IVR) and, yet, I do it all the time, trying desperately to make sense out of their thingammajig. After all, I worked in a call centre, didn't I? And I wrote the script for their voice interfaces (see, I told you before it's a nice word, eh?), didn't I? I keep hoping things would be better. But, sadly, it isn't. I had to spend almost 30 minutes to go through the various options and then when the option "dial 9 to speak to a customer support executive" came on I jumped at the chance. By this time I was totally frazzled and disoriented.
Sponsored link Have you faced this problem?
Have you noticed how companies give customer service the least priority putting it into an IVR system and then if you don't give them their 16-digit number just disconnect you with an accusing "You have entered an invalid number. Please try again, goodbye." I could have choked the voice box of that pretty voice that said it.
Such was my anger and chagrin as I was denied my justice that I wrote to the new minister for corporate affairs (Mr. Murli Deora) this letter. Hope he is able to do something about it.
In the very least, businesses should offer gifts or coupons when they've made our lives miserable.
Monday, January 24, 2011
Jaipur Literary Festival - The Literary Glitterati
The Daily Beast has this interesting article on their site about the Jaipur Literary Festival. Excerpt below:
"Yet those crowds were also intently focused on the hour-long panels in a way that any attendee of gabfests whose pulsating heart is normally the cocktail lounge would find astonishing. Events with sincere titles like "Why Books Matter" and "Reporting the Occupation" drew hundreds of rapt listeners. Audience members could ask earnest, unselfconscious questions like whether e-books were real books without blushing. South African Nobel laureate J.M. Coetzee held an audience of over 1,000 people spellbound as he a read an entire short story, without a single cell phone trilling."
I know literary festivals are fodder for the fussy literary minds that work on novels, short stories, poems, plays, etc. in the loneliness of attics and dungeons with only their unwilling muses for company. (My muse often beckons me to the television, or my beautiful terrace hideout where I can lose myself in the many-layered V.S.Naipaul's novel "The Mimic Men.") Or, should I have been at the Jaipur Literary Festival instead, braving the cold, unpublished (sigh!), ignored, subdued, maligned? Better to rein in hell of my attic (yes, that's my writing space at home) than bow down to the literary glitterati in the exotic town of the Rajput kings of yore.
If I get published (that's a big "if"), only then will I go to Jaipur Literary Festival. Not otherwise. So, complete the editing for God's sake.
"Yet those crowds were also intently focused on the hour-long panels in a way that any attendee of gabfests whose pulsating heart is normally the cocktail lounge would find astonishing. Events with sincere titles like "Why Books Matter" and "Reporting the Occupation" drew hundreds of rapt listeners. Audience members could ask earnest, unselfconscious questions like whether e-books were real books without blushing. South African Nobel laureate J.M. Coetzee held an audience of over 1,000 people spellbound as he a read an entire short story, without a single cell phone trilling."
I know literary festivals are fodder for the fussy literary minds that work on novels, short stories, poems, plays, etc. in the loneliness of attics and dungeons with only their unwilling muses for company. (My muse often beckons me to the television, or my beautiful terrace hideout where I can lose myself in the many-layered V.S.Naipaul's novel "The Mimic Men.") Or, should I have been at the Jaipur Literary Festival instead, braving the cold, unpublished (sigh!), ignored, subdued, maligned? Better to rein in hell of my attic (yes, that's my writing space at home) than bow down to the literary glitterati in the exotic town of the Rajput kings of yore.
If I get published (that's a big "if"), only then will I go to Jaipur Literary Festival. Not otherwise. So, complete the editing for God's sake.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Another Excerpt from My Novel - Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard
Since it is Sunday and I don't want to exert myself too much I will post an excerpt from my novel, just to give you an idea of what I am working on. Hope you like it. If you have feedback please write a comment. I would appreciate it very much. About the footnotes: since I use a lot of Indian terms I have written them in footnotes for the benefit of readers who do not understand these expressions. For more about the novel "Mr. Bandookwala, M.B.A., Harvard go here.
We – Evita and I – party, we boogie, we stay out late in the night where jazz and rock play to the clinking of a million glasses, in semi-darkness, where ghostly shapes flit about in shiny evening clothes – pointed shoes, tight trousers, belts, cummerbunds, shirts open to navel, skirts so short I could see panties, tops through which bulge the luscious forbidden fruit, the vision that made Screw, Jimmy, Johnny and Veereshbhai slaves of the skirt for ever, its eternal ravager. Screw, he who made women want him so much, he was like Casanova and Don Juan in one. Those days were Kama-Atura[1], affected by my great love for her, almost a sickness of the lovelorn. We would seek out fun and would be its slave in the dark recesses of five-star hotels where the hedonism of the rich prevailed. Those were a series of concupiscent days where I lost my way, didn't care what I did, and didn't bother what people would say. I would sit for hours surveying the scene from my office cabin on rainy afternoons – when the rain fell like stippled spheres of incandescent light – from whence the grey dullness of the wet afternoon would magically fade into the deeper shades of dusk and my meeting with Evita would begin again with renewed passion. My escape from responsibility, darling, my escape from being your dadda, I am contrite, I am sorry to say, this was my second period of innocence. How can I say it: I was corrupted by love. On a positive note I could feel me evolving, as if I have transformed from the ugly larva into a colourful butterfly inside the chrysalis. I stopped believing in my work; it was for me just a hindrance; whatever grandiose plans I had were sacrified at the altar of her love. Maybe, it was her witchery, her alleged para-normal powers that were to blame.
Saturday, January 22, 2011
So, Wearing Jacket Eh? Feeling Cold?
I hate to make excuses for wearing my jacket in winter. Or, sweater for that matter. So, I will make it this once for everyone's sake and please don't tell me snarkily:
Haaahn, wearing sweater, eh? Feeling cold? eh?
Meaning to say: Showing off, eh? Showing off your sweaters and your cap?
I guess we have perfected the art of criticising others for the clothes they wear. I find this abominable habit prevalent more in Bombay and the south than in north India. The moment you have an extra garment on, they want an explanation as to why and what for. Here's why:
I live in a valley surrounded on three sides by hills. So it's cold in the morning. If Bombay is 12 degrees, we are 10 degrees or lower. So in order to protect my bones from chilling and becoming ice I need the warms of woollens and jackets.
I am not very tolerant of cold. I have a high tolerance of the heat, because I have lived in hot climates most of my life. So cold leaves me rattled and I start shivering when there is the slightest chill.
I am not a show off trying to vainly gain in your esteem by showing my LL Bean jacket and Woodland cap. I wear them because they are of good quality and do not tear. Moreover, they are comfortable. They have been with me for years and I have grown attached to them.
So, satisfied? Comment if you want here, but don't stop me and ask me why I am wearing my jacket or scarf or cap, pleaaaassseeee!
Haaahn, wearing sweater, eh? Feeling cold? eh?
Meaning to say: Showing off, eh? Showing off your sweaters and your cap?
I guess we have perfected the art of criticising others for the clothes they wear. I find this abominable habit prevalent more in Bombay and the south than in north India. The moment you have an extra garment on, they want an explanation as to why and what for. Here's why:
I live in a valley surrounded on three sides by hills. So it's cold in the morning. If Bombay is 12 degrees, we are 10 degrees or lower. So in order to protect my bones from chilling and becoming ice I need the warms of woollens and jackets.
I am not very tolerant of cold. I have a high tolerance of the heat, because I have lived in hot climates most of my life. So cold leaves me rattled and I start shivering when there is the slightest chill.
I am not a show off trying to vainly gain in your esteem by showing my LL Bean jacket and Woodland cap. I wear them because they are of good quality and do not tear. Moreover, they are comfortable. They have been with me for years and I have grown attached to them.
So, satisfied? Comment if you want here, but don't stop me and ask me why I am wearing my jacket or scarf or cap, pleaaaassseeee!
Friday, January 21, 2011
Jaipur Literary Festival - Orhan Pamuk - Not Rhetorical or Lamenting
This article says (sorry the link doesn't work, so I won't link it, to save you some trouble) the Jaipur Literary Festival opened with a bang. It must have been mired in a bit of controversy this time.
Hm.
As news filters in Pamuk says being rhetorical or lamenting is not his type in this article. I like Pamuk and his straight from the heart delivery, which I had heard when he was in Bombay. Here's a link to that interview by Sunil Sethi.
Hm.
As news filters in Pamuk says being rhetorical or lamenting is not his type in this article. I like Pamuk and his straight from the heart delivery, which I had heard when he was in Bombay. Here's a link to that interview by Sunil Sethi.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Hierarchical or Open Organisations? What Do We Have in India?
This is only for corporate types.
I am a great fan of the blogger Confused of Calcutta. I read him regularly. He is based in London and writes knowledgeably on several technology issues that vexes us in the digital age. Me, too. Consider for example this article about what modern organisation should be, how they should function, how they should be team oriented and not hierarchy oriented. It's not enough to make a job description (JD) and tell the employee that this is what you need to do and then do a severe test on his performance (all at the instance of the boss, the team leader). This is all very well for the hierarchical organisation concerned with structure and direct performance incentives. However, it fails when it comes to optimum utilisation of the employee's inherent talents.
Therefore the millions of disgruntled - talented, I assume - employees who get disillusioned soon after they join and leave after taking a few months of salary during which time they have contributed nothing to the organisation.
I think this is where most Indian organisations fail. They hire an employee and ask him to do a job instead of fitting the job to his talents. In the process the employee is disoriented and the organisation works on several pockets of, shall I say "vacuums," in the knowledge sphere.
A common enough problem in the several technology companies I worked. But how do we resolve this problem?
I am a great fan of the blogger Confused of Calcutta. I read him regularly. He is based in London and writes knowledgeably on several technology issues that vexes us in the digital age. Me, too. Consider for example this article about what modern organisation should be, how they should function, how they should be team oriented and not hierarchy oriented. It's not enough to make a job description (JD) and tell the employee that this is what you need to do and then do a severe test on his performance (all at the instance of the boss, the team leader). This is all very well for the hierarchical organisation concerned with structure and direct performance incentives. However, it fails when it comes to optimum utilisation of the employee's inherent talents.
Therefore the millions of disgruntled - talented, I assume - employees who get disillusioned soon after they join and leave after taking a few months of salary during which time they have contributed nothing to the organisation.
I think this is where most Indian organisations fail. They hire an employee and ask him to do a job instead of fitting the job to his talents. In the process the employee is disoriented and the organisation works on several pockets of, shall I say "vacuums," in the knowledge sphere.
A common enough problem in the several technology companies I worked. But how do we resolve this problem?
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