This article appeared in Vol. 1 No. 4 (Aug., 1993) of the Facilitated Communication Digest, [p. 14]. It was reprinted with permission from Facilitated Communication in Maine, 2(1).

Knowledge seems more like a kind of medicine that I have to take repeatedly against the boredom and desolation of my heart. And no matter how faithful I may be to it, it can never really cure me of autism. All it can give me is works and concepts that perform the middleman's service, but can never still my heart's craving for the reality itself, for true life and true possession. I shall never be cured until all reality comes streaming like an ecstatic intoxicating melody into my heart.