Review of White Light by Rudy Rucker

Bruce Sterling, rogue that he was (is?), once lobbied to change the moniker of 'science fiction' to 'transreal fiction'. And while his semantics were solid and the argument sound, there is no disagreeing with several decades of common parlance. Core human behavior (i.e. lemming DNA) means that almost fifty years later we still say 'science fiction' (and we know what it is when we say it <wink>). Marching beside Sterling, perhaps in earnest, perhaps out of moral support, was friend Rudy Rucker. Rucker, also a newcomer to scientific romance at the time, wanted to likewise put his own brand on things, and did so with a style of sf that can only be diplomatically referred to as 'transreal'. The bars and back alleys would more likely call it 'gonzo sf', and Rucker's debut novel White Light (1980) is the perfect example. If the Killer Bs (Greg Bear, Greg Benford, and David Brin) were the Bruce Springsteens and Duran Durans of the 80s, then Rucker is the The Flaming Lips, Butthole Surfers, and Devos rolled into one.

White Light tells the anything-but-mundane story of mathematics professor Felix Rayman. Facing a dead-end job and marriage headed to divorce, Rayman attempts to spice things up by trying lucid dreaming. Though successful, his sense of reality begins to slip. When he should be preparing a lecture, visions appear.  While he's trying to research Cantor's continuum hypothesis, gods and devils do, too. Rayman eventually calls upon Jesus for help, and is promptly tasked with taking a ghost named Kathy to Cimon, which is a place/existence permeated with the forms of infinity. Oh, Rayman fulfills Jesus' task.  But that is just the tip of the boot that kicks the reader in the ass, sending them into the bizarreness of Cimon. Don't hang on for the ride; spread your wings and soar.

White Light is both the hardest of science fiction and the lightest. The storyline is complete bonkers—talking cockroaches, infinite libraries, dove ladies, ethereal Einsteins, and on and on goes the list of absurdities. But at the novel's heart is a deep understanding of transinfinite mathematics. The reader need not understand its intricacies to appreciate the novel. But those who do will get a little something extra from the book. Everyone else, just enjoy the ride as there is absolutely zero about this book that is geometric.

Indeed, Rucker spins a magic-mushroom kaleidescope of ideas with one hand while jamming them into the pages with an Acme plunger in the other. It may even be too much. At about the the two-thirds' mark the reader feels like they've eaten a whole bag of gummi bears, and are facing potentiality of having to eat one more. But the novel eventually returns to reality, i.e. Rayman does get back to his so-called mundane life, which by the end of the novel has an entirely different perspective.  It's there, in fact, the book's rubber hits the road.

Rucker's overall style is hard to put a finger on. “Obliquely humorous” is the best I can come up with. And in case that wasn't clear, it's unique and therefore for a niche audience. It's not explicit nerd humor (the metric system: it's ten times better <snort snort>), rather tongue in cheek in dialogue and playful for the indirect way in which it points and counter-points its setting and occasionally throws in a bit of slapstick or over-the-top bits. It's not mainstream, social humor like Friends', more Kids in the Hall or some other obscure show which has achieved cult status among a select few.

In the end, White Light is one of the most exploding-bizarro-transinfinite-transreal towers you're likely to ever climb. In fact, it may be too unique—too jam packed. It's got rabbits and camaros and galaxies and candy floss coming out its ears. But it's huge fun and funny for the right reader. Fans of Paul Di Filippo's Fuzzy Dice, Stanislaw Lem's Cyberiad, Edwin Abbott's Flatland, or anything by Robert Sheckley will likely nod in appreciation reading White Light.