As soon as Daniel Brooker turns 18 years old, he heads to the Department of Designated Dates to find out when he will die of natural causes; in this peculiar alternate reality provocatively conjured by the author, anyone can procure this information (a technological instrument called a “gizmotron” makes this possible) if they so choose. To his astonishment and despair, Daniel finds out that he will die when he is only 27 years old and commences a life of endless dissipation—a “slow descent into fuckuppery.” Like most “shorters,” he forms friends with his own kind: Naomi is a hippie doomed to die at 25 and Brian is a drug dealer whose life will end at 34. Daniel becomes, in the opinion of his father, a “dumbass with no direction,” an addict lost in the haze of drug abuse, though still heroically clinging to some semblance of moral dignity. The author perspicaciously imagines the kind of world that would arise from this grim knowledge, one split between Gnostics—those who believe one should choose not to know, to avoid the terrible psychic cost of such information—and Watersons, religious zealots who believe an early death is a sure sign of moral turpitude and an expression of God’s disfavor. Daniel descends from a family of Gnostics but feels compelled to know his lifespan nevertheless, and that information proves crushing to him, an invitation to see his existence as essentially pointless (a moral predicament intelligently conveyed by Fletcher).
At the heart of this fascinating novel is the moral meaning of one’s mortality. Everyone in this strange world will perish, but those who expect long lives can postpone a wrenching reflection on their finitude. Shorters like Daniel are not afforded such luxury; unable to cope at so young an age with such weighty issues, he devotes himself to chasing oblivion. The allure of knowing, the author makes clear, is overwhelming, but the consequences can be existentially devastating. Fletcher poignantly captures Daniel’s unenviable plight; here, he succumbs to sadness when Naomi dies on schedule: “I felt so insignificant. I am so tired of being alive. The fucking rat race. We’re just a bunch of worthless fucks scraping for meaning in a cold remorseless world. Holding onto each other as we disparate. Searching for meaning where there is none.” This literarily plain, even cliched writing style is maintained throughout the entire novel—the absence of any poetic spark is the principal failing of this otherwise stirring work. The tale is told from Daniel’s perspective, in the first person, and so this ends up working—he sounds just like any wounded young man would, if more intelligent than most. In place of stylized prose, a verisimilitude is impressively achieved. A thoughtful rumination on human mortality is achieved as well, one that cannily investigates the wages of too much knowledge.