The Final Interview with Jon Wallace Cherry

The following is adapted from a transcript from BBC with Jon Wallace Cherry on his latest novel only sixteen hours before his death.

A man with very large ears that stuck out like a toy sat in an armchair across from Jon Wallace Cherry, whose countenance was so stern and imposing that the man with large ears felt as if he was brought in for interrogation, not that he was about to conduct his interview for BBC. The only thing between the man with large ears – Howard – and Jon Wallace Cherry was a small tray stand with a small cup that held the ash from Jon Wallace Cherry’s cigar, which piled up quickly.

Jon put the cigar in his black and white beard and rotated the cigar with each puff. Howard shifted one last time in his armchair and referenced his notepad, which he kept on his crossed leg. “Is it true, Mr. Cherry, that when you first released your most notable work of fiction, Equious, that it was received with backlash and even considered hate-speech by some critics?”

Jon lowered his chin, which pushed out his neck, and looked at Howard under his eyebrows; he breathed heavily. “Oh yes,” Jon spoke clearly and slowly, like a governor or a political candidate, and his voice was twice as low as Howard’s. “Yes, when I first published Equious, it was published at the time that I felt most closely reflected those fears. Dystopian stories don’t come from the imagination, unfortunately; and worse is they’re hardly considered fiction, in time. So once Equious had circulated with readers and started to make an impression on the public, they considered it – eh… radical conservatism.”

“Why did they think it was hate-speech?” Howard asked a second time, hoping to draw forth history from the famed author’s perspective.

“Because it went against everything they were trying to organize,” Jon admitted, half-proudly. “At that time, America was diligently trying to include all peoples and eradicate – what I thought were – the inalienable rights to humanity.”

“Which rights?”

“The right to fuck up!—pardon me.”

“That’s alright, we can,” he looked to his right off camera, and then nodded with assurance, “we’ll censor that.”

“Alright, good.” Jon leaned forward in his chair. “It started as all national tragedies do, Howard: with a good idea. The fight for human equality is noble and… and empowering. But the extremism of that movement transformed itself into – what they were trying to do, Howard,” Jon suddenly burst with revelation, “They were trying to mandate inclusivity, hmm. But instead, they—” Jon curled his hands like he was squishing a ball, “reinforced exclusivity by establishing a new division or sect of people or political party, religious preference, that took its place.”

“Ah,” Howard smiled in amazement. “So, in trying to include everyone, they—”

“They wanted to make everyone the same person, not equal,” Jon interjected. “America synonymized ‘equal’ and ‘individuality,’” he held his hands open, right then left, as he stated each word, “which are strictly exclusive. Again, it started with a noble movement, but it slowly was stripping the individualities and the—the… the idiosyncrasies and.. eccentricities that make us up.” Jon leaned back in his chair and held up his cigar to his mouth, then pulled it down for a final thought on the matter. “You know, it’s the sin… it’s the right to sin that God gave us that shan’t be forgotten.” Jon puffed his cigar.

“What do you mean by ‘the right to sin’?” Howard inquired curiously.

Jon exhaled a plume of white smoke that covered his face for a moment. “The freedom to choose the wrong thing… the freedom to make the wrong choice and be offered forgiveness,” Jon leaned forward again earnestly, “Forgiveness, Howard, can-not be offered without sin. And when a society tries to build a utopia around a sinless idea – a utopia conceived by sinners to build a sinless civilization,” Jon chuckled, “You can imagine how that goes,” he laughed aloud.

Howard snickered along, acknowledging Jon’s point, “Yes, I see.”

After Jon finished amusing himself, he stuck his cigar over the ashtray and tapped it hard once with his forefinger. “Largely, the intent of that novel I wrote years and years ago was to clearly and explicitly, with love, show the good that was being lost that came from what I was seeing around me – the good that comes from loving…” Jon pointed gently at Howard and spoke very softly, “From loving your brother despite all they are.”

Jon smacked his lips on the cigar, moistening the end while rotating it in his mouth. Howard quickly skimmed his notepad for this next question. “Eventually, Mr. Cherry, Equious did find itself an esteemed reputation and among what many consider ‘a must read in American literature’… um, one critic has called your novel ‘a terrifying reality we must endure to love our neighbors deeper, diving soul first in the expedition of acceptance through difference.’” Howard looked up from the excerpt on his notepad and saw Jon Wallace Cherry was uninspired by the review and puffed his cigar nonchalantly. Howard continued. “Since then, Mr. Cherry, you have written several other novels - none of which have been a dystopian novel. Is there a reason you’ve stayed clear of that genre altogether?”

“No, no... there’s no particular reason; I write what I want to write. Back then – I was deeply concerned, at the time, with the nation, and was drawn to that sort of story, so I felt the need to express my concerns and… I suppose, in the only way I knew how – but back then that was the story I wanted to tell. And as each story came to mind and I worked on it, it was what I wanted to tell. I didn’t feel any need to write something specific afterwards. I, certainly, didn’t try to develop any range in my books – I had only ever written Equious when it was released, so I didn’t... there wasn't- I didn't go against the grain of my own style; there was no ‘voice’ to my words that fans could associate with—with other works I had done, comparing them. So, when my next idea came, I simply wrote it. Which turned out to be one of my favorites.” Jon paused and sighed contently. “But, no, to answer your question. I never had any personal opinion on writing dystopian novels.”

“Well, Mr. Cherry,” Howard started in a new tone, “you’re eighty-seven years old now and—”

“Eighty-six,” Jon corrected.

Howard stared nervously at his notes. “Uh… I’m sorry, I must have wrote down—”

“No! You’re right! You’re right,” Jon burst out loud. “I had—I had forgotten my own birthday!” He erupted with laughter. Howard laughed too, mostly from relief. “I didn’t celebrate it at all, so I had forgotten it had passed.” Jon cleared his throat, “Yes, thank you, eighty-seven.”

“Eighty-seven years old,” Howard chuckled “Um… you’ve just published your latest novel—I have it here,” Howard held it up as proof to Jon. The paperback cover was a small cottage surrounded by snow. “It’s called Winter Ash. Tell us what it’s about.”

“There is an old man named Finn – very old – and he lives alone in this cottage tucked away in the Netherlands. Finn had planned to leave for the holidays to visit his daughter and her family and see his grandchildren… but he gets sick from the cold and starts to feel incredibly weak.”

“Oh,” Howard reacted genuinely to the story.

“So, Finn feels he might be, you know… coming to the end of his life. Aaand…” Jon drew out the word. He pressed his lips together and stared at the wall. He opened his mouth and looked at Howard with tears in his eyes. “And… comes to grips that he will die.”

Howard paused and stared at Jon Wallace Cherry and held his breath. “Jon, are you…?” Jon nodded, barely. Howard looked around the room, trying to cope with the news. “I didn’t know…”

“Cancer.”

“Did the doctors say anything? You’re smoking that cigar—I don’t mean to tell you what you can and can’t do, but are you… are you getting treatment or about to?”

“No.”

“What do you mean? I don’t understand…”

“I’ve had it for seven months now.”

“Oh no... Did you not tell anybody?”

“No.”

“Jon—why… oh my God… why not?”

“Because I didn’t want to.”

“Why…?”

“I didn’t want to tell anyone because I didn’t want to be looked at differently. I didn’t want anything to change in my life, no matter the cost.”

“Couldn’t… I—Jon, couldn’t a doctor have… given you something? Does your family know even?”

“What I wanted for my last months or weeks or days was to be treated just as I had been any other day of my life. Howard, people got mad at me. They got angry and upset with me. They wouldn’t do that if they knew I had cancer. They’re reactions to me – talking to me as they had for years – were raw. And I’ve savored it. Every disappointment or fuck up I’ve caused these last seven months have been the most genuine and authentic my life has ever felt. To be in the presence of other people, whom I love dearly, Howard – dearly – and cherish the friendships and memories I have with them without it being tarnished with desperate love.”

“Why wouldn’t you—don’t you want people to love you more in your… in these days?”

“They are loving me, Howard. Just as I want them to. Being who they are in front of me, and to me, is the most love I can receive. Their flaws. Their uniqueness’s. Their quirks. Everything they do poorly in front of me and to me… I welcome in my dying days. Because nothing… nothing makes me love someone more than when they are themselves.”

Howard listened in wonder at the words of Jon Wallace Cherry, telling him, and everyone, for the first time, he was going to die. He shook his head in shock, trying to find anything to resolve the interview. Jon leaned forward and tilted his head a little. “Were there other questions you wanted to ask?” Jon asked kindly. He took a puff of his cigar, then tapped the ash off.

Howard looked at his notepad and locked eyes with the final question. “Um… is… um…”

“Go on.” Jon said calmly. “You can ask it.”

“My last question that I had written down was if… if you had any other novels planned…”

“No.” He smiled fondly at Howard. “I don’t.”