Like Kedar’s previous book (the autobiographical, Ido in Autismland), In Two Worlds has been laboriously written by typing with one finger on an iPad, with no one touching him (an incontrovertible fact well-documented in prominent media, including the Wall Street Journal, LA Times and CBC). In this book, Kedar tells the story of ‘Anthony,’ about whom it is assumed—as it is for autists generally—that ‘non-speaking means non-thinking.’ As a non-speaking person with severe autism, Kedar is determined to prove the falsity of that dangerous assumption. Through Anthony, the reader experiences the ‘two worlds’ of the autist—the intelligent, reflective, engaged learner caught in an internal struggle with a body-prison prone to such incoherence and disregulation that volition becomes nearly impossible: “My brain tries to talk to my body but my body has trouble receiving the message” (p. 286). As an author, Kedar joins an increasing number of nonspeaking autists who type independently—such as Tito Mukhopadhyay, Naoki Higashida, Larry Bissonnette, Tracy Thresher, Birger Sellin and Carly Fleishman—who are gaining a public audience. Hearing their ‘voices’ through writing disturbs the status quo of autism interventions: for if the autist is actually attending and perfectly capable of refined, sophisticated, higher-level critical thinking—despite appearances—then there is an urgent need to question interventions that target appearances (‘behaviors’) while ignoring the autist’s basic human right to liberty. That’s the point Kedar injects so decisively into public space. Kedar invites the reader to consider what life would be like to be bright and alert ‘on the inside,’ but subjected to hours a day of monotonous training. He juxtaposes painfully astute observations about Anthony’s inability to “resist compulsions” and his need to flap, against his profound dislike of “baby-talk” and “ABA speak” (‘Good job’...‘Put-on-pants’... ‘Hands quiet’) (p. 5-6). He also relates the difficulty of bearing an “educationally-boring, sensory-overwhelming real world” (p. 17), along with the frustration of “treatments that actually prevented him from truly being helped” (p. 19). Learning to type his thoughts at the age of 16 helps Anthony achieve joy in small moments, like finally being able to express his desire for pizza. In turn, being able to write steadily improves Anthony’s self-management within his environment: “Each day, Anthony tried to let go of the past, a time when the only way he could really state his preferences was by snatching or grabbing in apparent impulsivity, a time when he felt so powerless” (p. 221). Through typing one finger at a time (or its low-tech alternative, spelling out words one letter at a time by pointing to a letter board), Anthony slowly gains autonomy as an independent person—the goal of every one of us. Kedar’s writing is provocative and poignant, as he shares his insights into being autistic: “Anthony longed for escape, but he had to break through the twelve-foot-high theory barrier that the guards had constructed” (p. 31). Kedar’s use of fiction as a vehicle is creatively brilliant, freeing him to candidly narrate his personal experiences in the politically charged arena of autism interventions, as he makes the compelling point (reiterated in his monthly blog at Idoinautismland.com) that “nonspeaking does not mean non-thinking.” Kedar contributes immensely to a better understanding of autism as a lived condition primarily marked by “paralyzing anxiety” (p. 229), including the autist’s tremendous sensitivity to the anxiety of others: “He absorbed her anxiety like it was his own” (p. 232). Through years of painstaking effort, Anthony “taught his hand to be his voice” (p. 243). So doing, Kedar reveals that writing is an authentic reparation for nonspeaking autists—a skill that can be progressively learned to enable a reduction in anxiety and a developmental pathway for independence. As Kedar wraps his wonderful text, Anthony refuses to surrender his intellectual vitality: “I’m tired of being silent and I’m tired of being silenced” (p. 287)—even though, in terms of comportment, he is resigned to being a “noticeable weirdo” (p. 289). Here again is echoed the ‘two worlds’ of an autistic person—the incongruity between an interior life that suffers through non-expression, and an exterior presentation that is both stigmatizing and stigmatized. Kedar’s truth-as-fiction is a bold invitation to all of us to humbly admit that we have ‘got autism wrong,’ and to presume competence in people with autism so that we avoid being complicit in a profoundly harmful silencing. Kedar is a brilliant writer and a powerful young activist, and In Two Worlds is a must-read book.