Whose Choice Anyway

place on the world literary stage. My book says grim things, as you know, but tonight the world seems peaceful from my powerful point of view.

Tonight is my night for laughing, for crying tears of joy, but wait, my brothers hobble after me hinting 'What about silent us ... can we too have a voice?' Tonight I speak for them, but fresh freedom is nodding on their horizon. Between the scientists looms the challenge - can you read the BRAIN-WAVED-SPEECH of brain-damaged man?

Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight is the happiest night of my life. Imagine if you will, what I would have missed if the doctors had not revived me on that September day long ago. Each day of my life is a bonus of comfortable blessings. My days of sadness are as of nothing compared with my serene days of sobbing - fresh pleasure. Can freedom honestly be denied to the handicapped man? Can yessing be so difficult, that rather than give a baby a chance at life, man treads upon his brother and silences him before he can ever draw one breath of this world's fresh air?

And now my thanks. To Mr Whitbread I say - Go raibh mile mile maith agat - a thousand thousand thanks.

To the judges I say thank you. By choosing my book as the Book of the Year, you have fashioned me as an equal to any other writer, be they creating words by hand or by head. Added to that, I must say, that I most certainly admire your taste!

And lastly, to my saviours one and all, I say - you know that my fond thanks is couched in my every glance.