Francisco X. Stork: Hello. My name is Francisco X. Stork. I am the author of 'Marcelo in the Real World'.

I'd like to tell you a little bit about how I came to write this story and then read a small excerpt to you so that you can get a tiny flavor of how the book is written.

'Marcelo in the Real World' started out to be a story about Aurora, Marcelo's mother. In that story, Aurora had a 17 year old son whose name was Marcelo and who was very special. One might say a holy young man. As I continued to describe Marcelo his voice became very strong and I felt that I should tell his story. He was asking me to tell his story.

So, with Aurora's permission I put her story aside and worked on a book about Marcelo. Marcelo, as I mentioned before, has some very special characteristics. The way he is, the way he sees the world. Makes it difficult for him to function in our fast-paced, loud, confusing world. During this time something happened that brought to my awareness the fact that Marcelo's characteristics were shared by many others, and those others are persons who have Asperger's syndrome. A high functioning form of autism.

So I then proceeded to do a lot of research and interview many kids who had Asperger's syndrome. Despite all this Marcelo is not just a story about someone who has Asperger's syndrome. 'Marcelo in the Real World' is a story about goodness. The goodness that we all have inside of us and how, like Marcelo, we can keep it alive in our own real worlds.

The passage that I will read to you describes the end of Marcelo's first morning at work. He has met a lot of people and been bombarded by much information. More than he can possibly handle. His co-worker, Jasmine, makes a list for him. 12:30 copying/collating. 1:30 walk over to the Federal Court House to file documents. 2:30 scanning. 3:00 mail sorting. 3:30 filing system. 4:30 last mail run. 5:00 time to head for home.

Here's Marcelo's reaction to that list.

"Aurora once told me that she knew I was different within the first few months after I was born. Because as a baby I never cried. She had no way of knowing if I was hungry or if my stomach hurt until I was old enough to point and talk. Even when I fell and it was obvious that I had hurt myself I did not cry. When I didn't get my way I would go off by myself and sulk, or have a tantrum. But I never cried.

Later, when I was 11 and Abba died I didn't cry. When Joseph, my best friend at St. Elizabeth's, died I didn't cry. Maybe I don't feel what other's feel. I have no way of knowing. But I do feel. It's just that what I feel does not elicit tears. What I feel when others cry is more like a dry empty aloneness. Like I'm the only person left in the world. So it is very strange to feel my eyes well with tears as I read Jasmine's list."