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Chronicules
A mysterious explosion, a haunting indefinable smell...
Unknown Binding
First published January 1, 1970
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218 people want to read
About the author
D.G. Compton
47 books36 followersDavid Guy Compton has published science fiction as D.G. Compton. He has also published crime novels as Guy Compton and Gothic fiction as Frances Lynch.
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Displaying 1 - 14 of 14 reviews
October 29, 2020
There’s a stilted and formal, almost aseptic quality to the writing in this novel, as if the author is seeking to pin things down precisely, with verbal precision that somehow slightly alters one’s perspective. At the same time there is precision, there is also obfuscation, a withholding of salient background information that must be inferred. In short, it reminded me of early William Golding, most specifically The Spire, though similar writing is in Lord of the Flies and The Inheritors (this latter is one of my favorite novels). In this novel, Compton fuses pulp sci-fi tropes with themes from Greek tragedy.
The novel’s title—its name a portmanteau of chronos and molecules, meaning a particle of time—properly alerts the time-traveling enthusiast, and further suggests in a homophonic/punning way that this will be the story of said time travel, ie, its “chronicles”. This novel does chronicle the story of Roses Varco, the village idiot of Cornish Penheniot Village, beginning in ~1968, with a focus on 1988 (when over-population, pollution, and a pandemic intersect), and a brief sojourn to ~2045. Varco’s out-and-back time travel opens and closes the book.
When the Penheniot Village collapsed in the mid-60s, only the Varco clan remained, and then mother and father died, and only 18-year-old Roses remained, content to live in the squalor of a collapsed, decaying cottage. In 1968, whilst reading a comic book on the jetty, a great flash and explosion occurs at his hovel, but there is no visible damage, only an odd smell and the novel presence of a strange, luminous, indestructible book. Varco perceives the book as a shocking/disturbing piece of pornography, for its first words are “nakedness” thrice repeated. Disgusted with all the print and conflicted that there is little additional titillation, Varco throws the book away, and it is this book that a first-person author (a persona for Compton) uses as the basis for the novel.
According to the “author”, the main events take place 18 years hence, circa 1986-88, when 90-year-old multi-millionaire Manny Littlejohn has turned Peheniot Village into a fortified scientific refuge, both a research and training facility. Littlejohn’s vision is to create a time machine to send himself and some chrononauts into the future, when/where it might be possible to escape present conditions and prolong their lives. Subtly integrated into the here-and-now of 1988 is the fact that everyone is comfortable with nudity and casual sex, those stock taboos replaced with a concern for birth control and overpopulation.
There are several pressures to escape to the future, but an immediate one arises three-quarters of the way through the novel, when the neighboring village, struck with a pandemic, is kept forcibly isolated from Peheniot. Even while Varco is the source and instrumental part of the story, it is the scientist assisting the venerable Ivan Kravchensky whose thoughts, actions, and emotions define the novel’s twisted trajectory: Liza Simmons, an attractive 20-something who’s divorced herself from family and world to work at Peheniot. In her frustrations with the course of the experiments to refine the time machine, she becomes intrigued with Varco, admiring his taciturn deliberateness and ease of being. She imagines in him depths of feeling that clothes and inhibitions keep tamped down.
When she and Varco travel upstream from the estuary to track the Peheniot’s missing geese, they encounter a couple of louts from the adjacent village who insult and then threaten them. Varco explodes and uses an oar to smash and injure the bullying provocateurs, and Liza is further aroused at the prospect of sex with Varco. When both are quarantined in the hospital because of their contact with the outsiders, Liza seduces Varco, and he overcomes his inhibitions, but his violence is more than Liza had expected. She thereafter loathes and detests Varco and steers clear of him. When, after one of the trained cosmonauts returns with brain damage that signals inevitable death (as it did in earlier animal experiments), Liza is far from averse to using Varco as the next test subject.
With the adjustments she makes to the process (less accurate in placing subjects in time, but safer), she and Kravchensky send him into the future, but they are uncertain about where/when he will emerge. Meanwhile, Peheniot is under siege by rioting outsiders and British armed forces...
The author intervenes to explain that the book from which he is cribbing his novel does not contain the following, so he is extrapolating what must have occurred… Varco emerges from his time travel, 57 years beyond 1988, in the same laboratory at Peheniot. He encounters Liza Simmons and her 56-year-old son. Liza is no longer merely a scientist, but somehow has become the nation’s leader, with Peheniot the command center for her control of England. Her son is heir to the realm. Liza concocts a scheme to have Varco discovered as a spy, then to have him executed. Whilst she goes off to make arrangements, her son sends Varco back in time. When Liza returns to see what her son has done, she kills him, then fabricates another story, that infiltrators had killed him.
Varco, bearing the book that chronicles the events of 1988, returns to the moment the novel begins, in 1968. The explosion that young Varco hears from the jetty is his older self being disintegrated, an instance of the time-travel principle that no two entities can exist simultaneously. Only the book remains…
The essence of the novel is staging Liza’s transformation from innocent idealist to cold-blooded dictator, which all begins with her presumptious image of coaxing from Varco some gentle sexing. Further, having become pregnant with his child, Liza’s 56 years with her son must have been continual testament to her naivete, though she faults Varco and masks her shame with cool calculation. As with Euripedes’ Medea and Jason, Liza’s ultimate rage eclipses any affection she had for her son. There are lacunae in this novel (eg, 57 years!), but there is sufficient matter, tacit and intimated, that enable a reader to believe and to marvel, to experience, as with Greek tragedy, a great purgation and a lasting calm.
The novel’s title—its name a portmanteau of chronos and molecules, meaning a particle of time—properly alerts the time-traveling enthusiast, and further suggests in a homophonic/punning way that this will be the story of said time travel, ie, its “chronicles”. This novel does chronicle the story of Roses Varco, the village idiot of Cornish Penheniot Village, beginning in ~1968, with a focus on 1988 (when over-population, pollution, and a pandemic intersect), and a brief sojourn to ~2045. Varco’s out-and-back time travel opens and closes the book.
When the Penheniot Village collapsed in the mid-60s, only the Varco clan remained, and then mother and father died, and only 18-year-old Roses remained, content to live in the squalor of a collapsed, decaying cottage. In 1968, whilst reading a comic book on the jetty, a great flash and explosion occurs at his hovel, but there is no visible damage, only an odd smell and the novel presence of a strange, luminous, indestructible book. Varco perceives the book as a shocking/disturbing piece of pornography, for its first words are “nakedness” thrice repeated. Disgusted with all the print and conflicted that there is little additional titillation, Varco throws the book away, and it is this book that a first-person author (a persona for Compton) uses as the basis for the novel.
According to the “author”, the main events take place 18 years hence, circa 1986-88, when 90-year-old multi-millionaire Manny Littlejohn has turned Peheniot Village into a fortified scientific refuge, both a research and training facility. Littlejohn’s vision is to create a time machine to send himself and some chrononauts into the future, when/where it might be possible to escape present conditions and prolong their lives. Subtly integrated into the here-and-now of 1988 is the fact that everyone is comfortable with nudity and casual sex, those stock taboos replaced with a concern for birth control and overpopulation.
There are several pressures to escape to the future, but an immediate one arises three-quarters of the way through the novel, when the neighboring village, struck with a pandemic, is kept forcibly isolated from Peheniot. Even while Varco is the source and instrumental part of the story, it is the scientist assisting the venerable Ivan Kravchensky whose thoughts, actions, and emotions define the novel’s twisted trajectory: Liza Simmons, an attractive 20-something who’s divorced herself from family and world to work at Peheniot. In her frustrations with the course of the experiments to refine the time machine, she becomes intrigued with Varco, admiring his taciturn deliberateness and ease of being. She imagines in him depths of feeling that clothes and inhibitions keep tamped down.
When she and Varco travel upstream from the estuary to track the Peheniot’s missing geese, they encounter a couple of louts from the adjacent village who insult and then threaten them. Varco explodes and uses an oar to smash and injure the bullying provocateurs, and Liza is further aroused at the prospect of sex with Varco. When both are quarantined in the hospital because of their contact with the outsiders, Liza seduces Varco, and he overcomes his inhibitions, but his violence is more than Liza had expected. She thereafter loathes and detests Varco and steers clear of him. When, after one of the trained cosmonauts returns with brain damage that signals inevitable death (as it did in earlier animal experiments), Liza is far from averse to using Varco as the next test subject.
With the adjustments she makes to the process (less accurate in placing subjects in time, but safer), she and Kravchensky send him into the future, but they are uncertain about where/when he will emerge. Meanwhile, Peheniot is under siege by rioting outsiders and British armed forces...
The author intervenes to explain that the book from which he is cribbing his novel does not contain the following, so he is extrapolating what must have occurred… Varco emerges from his time travel, 57 years beyond 1988, in the same laboratory at Peheniot. He encounters Liza Simmons and her 56-year-old son. Liza is no longer merely a scientist, but somehow has become the nation’s leader, with Peheniot the command center for her control of England. Her son is heir to the realm. Liza concocts a scheme to have Varco discovered as a spy, then to have him executed. Whilst she goes off to make arrangements, her son sends Varco back in time. When Liza returns to see what her son has done, she kills him, then fabricates another story, that infiltrators had killed him.
Varco, bearing the book that chronicles the events of 1988, returns to the moment the novel begins, in 1968. The explosion that young Varco hears from the jetty is his older self being disintegrated, an instance of the time-travel principle that no two entities can exist simultaneously. Only the book remains…
The essence of the novel is staging Liza’s transformation from innocent idealist to cold-blooded dictator, which all begins with her presumptious image of coaxing from Varco some gentle sexing. Further, having become pregnant with his child, Liza’s 56 years with her son must have been continual testament to her naivete, though she faults Varco and masks her shame with cool calculation. As with Euripedes’ Medea and Jason, Liza’s ultimate rage eclipses any affection she had for her son. There are lacunae in this novel (eg, 57 years!), but there is sufficient matter, tacit and intimated, that enable a reader to believe and to marvel, to experience, as with Greek tragedy, a great purgation and a lasting calm.
December 14, 2014
review of
D. G. Compton's Chronocules
by tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - December 12, 2014
I don't know anything about D.G. Compton. This is, as far as I can remember, the 1st work I've read by him. I find that SF writers are often jacks-of-all-trades so I like reading the capsule bios about them that often appear in their bks:
"DAVID G. COMPTON was born in London in 1930; both his parents were in the theater, and he was brought up by his grandmother. After eighteen months' National Service, he tried a variety of jobs—as a stage manager, salesman, dock worker, shop display manager, jobbing builder—before turning to writing." - p 2
Otherwise, I decided to read this b/c it uses the term "chrononauts" & I was (still am?) a member of what started out as the Chrononautic Society & eventually became the Krononautic Organism - a group founded by Richard Ellsberry to throw parties for People-From-The-Future who might find out about our party at a time when time-travel might exist in a form that wd enable them to attend our party. You can sortof find out something about us here: http://www.thing.de/projekte/7:9%23/k... . Compton's bk came out in 1970 so he & others had probably coined "chrononauts" before Richard did since I think Richard might've coined it in 1977 or thereabouts. I think Richard probably realized this at some point & partially chose the newer name to make it more distinct.
"The founder," [Richard Ellsberry,] "had a sense of style. He chose security men with cheerful red faces and fringes of beard, dressing them in blue fishermen's jerseys, shabby fishermen's caps and patched blue fishermen's jeans. But they were security men all the same, and had been known to behave accordingly.
"First of all there was a fat harbor master who hailed offenders in a throughly friendly manner. (The operation was number 3a in the handbook.)
""Private mooring old boy. Wouldn't mind pushing off down the creek a bit, would you?" - p 19
If that didn't work the people in paddle boats inexpertly playing alto sax usually wd. ""You waste my time. We build a village, so we need a village idiot. Put him on the payroll."" (p 22) That actually explains alot: someone must've misunderstood him to say: "a village of idiots" - these things happen. "In David Silberstein whatever euphoria had lingered from his talk with Roses immediately departed. Professor Kravchensky scuttled, he himself scuttled, the whole Village (except for Roses) scuttled. That was what they were there for. For purposes of scuttling. Following the inspiration of that archscuttler, Emmanuel Littlejohn, they applied their own considerable intellects and his own considerable fortune to the problem, with the sad wisdom of rats, of how best to scuttle." (p 36) Then I came along, the man from the future, & they immediately tried to kill me. I let them believe they had:
""If I'd reported him to Mr. Silberstein," he said, "the poor man would have been confined to the Village for at least six months as Bessie's assistant."
"(Bessie was the rapacious" [Visual Music] "Village" [ http://visualmusic.ning.com/profile/t... ] "nurse, whose divorced husband had departed to live in Nicaragua. A passionate, impulsive woman, it was said that she had divorced him for chronic incapacity following the biting off of his penis. It was an uneasy joke, filled with fear.)" - p 80
"The final gesture, the suitable termination, was provided by an inspired young man, naked," [ http://youtu.be/kgyIDedE7uU ] "with thick reddish hair—Manny Littlejohn could clearly see it glinting in the sunlight—who leaped onto the bonnet of the truck and stood, legs apart in archetypal little boy's defiance, to pee a golden rainbow at the windscreen and the men inside." (p 85) "(As for the truck men, it was a wasted gesture: behind the filthied glass one of them was already dead, his companions too ill from dehydration and heatstroke for a spray of urine here or there to make much difference.)" (pp 85-66)
&, yeah, it is true: I'm a blatant pervert.. but not in the way you 'think':
""Penheniot Experimental Research Village. . . ." She leaned against the glass of the window. "Presumably the initials are meant as a joke."
""Admittedly our Founder has a troublesome sense of humor."" - p 102
"Finally he switched in the Village House-to-house communications system, and played his ridiculous call sign—he hated Schubert, and the Trout Quintet in particular, but the Founder (a man of shallow culture) had been adamant. Into every workroom, every office, every shop, every home (except Roses Varco's: the amenity had been thought wasted on him), tinkled the trivial refrain.*"
"*At this point the original book , in its pursuit of actuality, plays the theme three times through. I've no idea how it does it: the page looks very like all the others." - p 151
After the paddle boat players finished off the Trout Quintet at the harbor: "It was on that morning's tide that the first of the corpses, monitored all the way up the Pill, arrived off Penheniot quay. The first of the many, as the sea became sewer, mortuary, burying ground, David Silberstein—he was everywhere these days—had the area already cordoned off and the doctor waiting. The body, that of an elderly woman, only mildly bloated, was sealed and taken to the path. lab., where the doctor made his examination under totally sterile conditions and was able to isolate a mutant strain of enteric fever." (p 174) "He hooked a worm and cast it out across the pale water. He didn't mind, perhaps hadn't noticed, that there were no fish, had been none for weeks." (p 201) Not even a quintet of trout.
D. G. Compton's Chronocules
by tENTATIVELY, a cONVENIENCE - December 12, 2014
I don't know anything about D.G. Compton. This is, as far as I can remember, the 1st work I've read by him. I find that SF writers are often jacks-of-all-trades so I like reading the capsule bios about them that often appear in their bks:
"DAVID G. COMPTON was born in London in 1930; both his parents were in the theater, and he was brought up by his grandmother. After eighteen months' National Service, he tried a variety of jobs—as a stage manager, salesman, dock worker, shop display manager, jobbing builder—before turning to writing." - p 2
Otherwise, I decided to read this b/c it uses the term "chrononauts" & I was (still am?) a member of what started out as the Chrononautic Society & eventually became the Krononautic Organism - a group founded by Richard Ellsberry to throw parties for People-From-The-Future who might find out about our party at a time when time-travel might exist in a form that wd enable them to attend our party. You can sortof find out something about us here: http://www.thing.de/projekte/7:9%23/k... . Compton's bk came out in 1970 so he & others had probably coined "chrononauts" before Richard did since I think Richard might've coined it in 1977 or thereabouts. I think Richard probably realized this at some point & partially chose the newer name to make it more distinct.
"The founder," [Richard Ellsberry,] "had a sense of style. He chose security men with cheerful red faces and fringes of beard, dressing them in blue fishermen's jerseys, shabby fishermen's caps and patched blue fishermen's jeans. But they were security men all the same, and had been known to behave accordingly.
"First of all there was a fat harbor master who hailed offenders in a throughly friendly manner. (The operation was number 3a in the handbook.)
""Private mooring old boy. Wouldn't mind pushing off down the creek a bit, would you?" - p 19
If that didn't work the people in paddle boats inexpertly playing alto sax usually wd. ""You waste my time. We build a village, so we need a village idiot. Put him on the payroll."" (p 22) That actually explains alot: someone must've misunderstood him to say: "a village of idiots" - these things happen. "In David Silberstein whatever euphoria had lingered from his talk with Roses immediately departed. Professor Kravchensky scuttled, he himself scuttled, the whole Village (except for Roses) scuttled. That was what they were there for. For purposes of scuttling. Following the inspiration of that archscuttler, Emmanuel Littlejohn, they applied their own considerable intellects and his own considerable fortune to the problem, with the sad wisdom of rats, of how best to scuttle." (p 36) Then I came along, the man from the future, & they immediately tried to kill me. I let them believe they had:
""If I'd reported him to Mr. Silberstein," he said, "the poor man would have been confined to the Village for at least six months as Bessie's assistant."
"(Bessie was the rapacious" [Visual Music] "Village" [ http://visualmusic.ning.com/profile/t... ] "nurse, whose divorced husband had departed to live in Nicaragua. A passionate, impulsive woman, it was said that she had divorced him for chronic incapacity following the biting off of his penis. It was an uneasy joke, filled with fear.)" - p 80
"The final gesture, the suitable termination, was provided by an inspired young man, naked," [ http://youtu.be/kgyIDedE7uU ] "with thick reddish hair—Manny Littlejohn could clearly see it glinting in the sunlight—who leaped onto the bonnet of the truck and stood, legs apart in archetypal little boy's defiance, to pee a golden rainbow at the windscreen and the men inside." (p 85) "(As for the truck men, it was a wasted gesture: behind the filthied glass one of them was already dead, his companions too ill from dehydration and heatstroke for a spray of urine here or there to make much difference.)" (pp 85-66)
&, yeah, it is true: I'm a blatant pervert.. but not in the way you 'think':
""Penheniot Experimental Research Village. . . ." She leaned against the glass of the window. "Presumably the initials are meant as a joke."
""Admittedly our Founder has a troublesome sense of humor."" - p 102
"Finally he switched in the Village House-to-house communications system, and played his ridiculous call sign—he hated Schubert, and the Trout Quintet in particular, but the Founder (a man of shallow culture) had been adamant. Into every workroom, every office, every shop, every home (except Roses Varco's: the amenity had been thought wasted on him), tinkled the trivial refrain.*"
"*At this point the original book , in its pursuit of actuality, plays the theme three times through. I've no idea how it does it: the page looks very like all the others." - p 151
After the paddle boat players finished off the Trout Quintet at the harbor: "It was on that morning's tide that the first of the corpses, monitored all the way up the Pill, arrived off Penheniot quay. The first of the many, as the sea became sewer, mortuary, burying ground, David Silberstein—he was everywhere these days—had the area already cordoned off and the doctor waiting. The body, that of an elderly woman, only mildly bloated, was sealed and taken to the path. lab., where the doctor made his examination under totally sterile conditions and was able to isolate a mutant strain of enteric fever." (p 174) "He hooked a worm and cast it out across the pale water. He didn't mind, perhaps hadn't noticed, that there were no fish, had been none for weeks." (p 201) Not even a quintet of trout.
September 2, 2012
This is one of the strangest future-history books I’ve ever read. The characters are all unlikable, the scenario is an extremely unpleasant version of 1980s Britain, from which they are trying to escape by hopping into the future (why do they think the future would be better seeing how much they had messed up their present?). But the experiments in time travel don’t work very well and the innocent suffer. The main characters just grow more and more unpleasant as they grow more desperate and in the end, they have to reach the future the long way round, like we all do. It’s a very depressing vision of humanity, give me the Star Trek universe any day.
June 24, 2025
Pretty easily the most obscure book I've ever read. Compton occupies a similar space to Zelazny for me so far -- I haven't really loved anything by either yet, but I keep wanting to read more of both. I guess the quality of their writing just keeps me feeling that the next one I read will be the one that really blows me away -- but if Lord of Light and The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe are the best each have to offer, then I'll still think they're great, so it's a win-win.
Was a very easy read, but have no real idea what to make of several key moments, the point of the general satire, the ending, etc. I think it's a more or less a swing and a miss, but I enjoyed it all the same -- Compton's writing alone deserved more of a readership than he ever had. If PKD wrote this exact same book, I'm convinced it would have been one of his mid-tier or above mid-tier books in terms of fame and acclaim.
I actually like how little attention is given to the mechanism of chronomic unity and what the hell the chronos or chronocules really are -- it only seems more important than it really is in the text because of the name American publishers gave the book (rather than the insane and iconic original: Hot Wireless Sets, Aspirin Tablets, the Sandpaper Sides of Used Matchboxes, and Something that Might have been Castor Oil). The way that Compton satirizes the free love movement is odd and didn't feel particularly effective, though -- I don't know what the hell statement he's trying to make. Some concept of free love is pretty common in SF futures and/or dystopias, but why it plays such a prominent part in this novel, I don't know. Roses Varco being a sort of Tarzan figure, a relic of a pre-dystopian past (and yet also maybe a glimpse of a post-dystopian-catastrophe future), is sort of interesting, but I have no idea what to make of Liza's obsession with him (and the eventual climactic, traumatizing moment their relationship leads up to). My best guess is that that moment is a (sudden) counterpoint to Liza's sort of Emersonian-esque romanticizing/fetishizing of the rustic/primitive -- which also makes it sort of dreary view of humanity in that it's sort of a lose-lose on either side of the spectrum of sexual purity/tolerance. But idk!
The ending is equally bizarre. What to make of the future scene -- and of the preface to it from the unnamed narrator that it may just be entirely made up -- I just have no clue. Liza turns into a filicidal tyrant, apparently!
The whole book felt like an experiment -- I don't think it's great, but it didn't offend me, and if anything it makes me want to read more of Compton because there's something I really like about him. Synthajoy and Farewell, Earth's Bliss are hopefully up next if I can ever find copies!
Was a very easy read, but have no real idea what to make of several key moments, the point of the general satire, the ending, etc. I think it's a more or less a swing and a miss, but I enjoyed it all the same -- Compton's writing alone deserved more of a readership than he ever had. If PKD wrote this exact same book, I'm convinced it would have been one of his mid-tier or above mid-tier books in terms of fame and acclaim.
I actually like how little attention is given to the mechanism of chronomic unity and what the hell the chronos or chronocules really are -- it only seems more important than it really is in the text because of the name American publishers gave the book (rather than the insane and iconic original: Hot Wireless Sets, Aspirin Tablets, the Sandpaper Sides of Used Matchboxes, and Something that Might have been Castor Oil). The way that Compton satirizes the free love movement is odd and didn't feel particularly effective, though -- I don't know what the hell statement he's trying to make. Some concept of free love is pretty common in SF futures and/or dystopias, but why it plays such a prominent part in this novel, I don't know. Roses Varco being a sort of Tarzan figure, a relic of a pre-dystopian past (and yet also maybe a glimpse of a post-dystopian-catastrophe future), is sort of interesting, but I have no idea what to make of Liza's obsession with him (and the eventual climactic, traumatizing moment their relationship leads up to). My best guess is that that moment is a (sudden) counterpoint to Liza's sort of Emersonian-esque romanticizing/fetishizing of the rustic/primitive -- which also makes it sort of dreary view of humanity in that it's sort of a lose-lose on either side of the spectrum of sexual purity/tolerance. But idk!
The ending is equally bizarre. What to make of the future scene -- and of the preface to it from the unnamed narrator that it may just be entirely made up -- I just have no clue. Liza turns into a filicidal tyrant, apparently!
The whole book felt like an experiment -- I don't think it's great, but it didn't offend me, and if anything it makes me want to read more of Compton because there's something I really like about him. Synthajoy and Farewell, Earth's Bliss are hopefully up next if I can ever find copies!
This entire review has been hidden because of spoilers.
December 17, 2024
3.5 ⭐
I am very much at the start of my Compton journey, following on from reading 'Farewell, Earth's Bliss' earlier this year (2024), which stands as an all-time favourite Sci-Fi novel. 'Chronicules', however, didn't quite hit the same notes for me. As a writer, Compton ticks the right boxes, his occasionally beautiful prose, and clean, punchy, and charismatic approach to storytelling, I find a joy to read, with impressive character work in both novels.
I found the tone of this one hard to land with, somewhat comedic, somewhat cynical, a commentary on a topic I have little if no care for unfortunately. Supposedly written as a parody of the 60's free-love movement, the overall plot and the larger themes at play here were amiss on me, Compton knows what he's doing and I know this isn't a bad book it just didn't tickle my SF contemplative senses. Most of the themes and topics pre-date my cultural interests therefore my investment in the story dwindled pretty quickly, however, Compton's authorial voice does make for a mostly enjoyable experience just on the writing alone. There's some great moments and beautiful passages of writing with some nice ideas that do come through in concise little tid-bits of delivery with a good finale to tie everything together well but didn't pack that same post-reflective punch that I got from 'Fairwell, Earth's Bliss'. Hard to recommend but will continue reading Compton.
I am very much at the start of my Compton journey, following on from reading 'Farewell, Earth's Bliss' earlier this year (2024), which stands as an all-time favourite Sci-Fi novel. 'Chronicules', however, didn't quite hit the same notes for me. As a writer, Compton ticks the right boxes, his occasionally beautiful prose, and clean, punchy, and charismatic approach to storytelling, I find a joy to read, with impressive character work in both novels.
I found the tone of this one hard to land with, somewhat comedic, somewhat cynical, a commentary on a topic I have little if no care for unfortunately. Supposedly written as a parody of the 60's free-love movement, the overall plot and the larger themes at play here were amiss on me, Compton knows what he's doing and I know this isn't a bad book it just didn't tickle my SF contemplative senses. Most of the themes and topics pre-date my cultural interests therefore my investment in the story dwindled pretty quickly, however, Compton's authorial voice does make for a mostly enjoyable experience just on the writing alone. There's some great moments and beautiful passages of writing with some nice ideas that do come through in concise little tid-bits of delivery with a good finale to tie everything together well but didn't pack that same post-reflective punch that I got from 'Fairwell, Earth's Bliss'. Hard to recommend but will continue reading Compton.
November 13, 2022
Straight outta Compton comes this seventh SF novel from the author of the prophetic The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe. In this one, a fictional Cornish town is taken over by an experimental research company whose weird shenanigans are later revealed to be in the time-travel wheelhouse, where the village idiot ends up embroiled in the lives of emotionally stunted, malicious, and sex-insistent scientists and despots. An unusual, satiric novel plump with pseudo-scientific waffle that reads like intentional parody of the genre, the novel’s loooong title (cowardly reduced to Chronicules in reissues) betrays the author’s mischief in a story that ridicules the problem of deeply flawed humans messing with the world around them in ways that merely reflect their own neuroses, with grave scientific consequences for the sane people. Compton’s writing is intriguingly off-kilter, and for fans of the more outré 1970s SF, this novel is well worth re-exploring.
January 17, 2024
Really 3.5. 4 stars for the writing, the sentence by sentence wording, which is trademark Compton excellent. 3 stars for certain social ludicrousness that seemed a hallmark of the New Wave back then, for which I, at least, have lost patience. (For whatever reason, and I suspect I understand, they tried to reduce relationships to matters of pure form, so that sex was "safe" and consumed like anything else, rather than being the fuel to the fire of bonding and, hence, many other emotions they seemed to want to pretend mattered less than they do.) But the time travel conceit is rather brilliant. Compton had his tongue a bit farther in his cheek than in his previous Ace Specials, indicating satire or parody or something. Whatever, it tends to subvert the impact. Still, a fine example of its kind and its period.
March 3, 2020
Full review: https://sciencefictionruminations.com...
"D. G. Compton has long been one of my favorite SF authors. Regrettably, his readership remains small and he has ceased publishing SF. Novels like The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (variant title: The Unsleeping Eye) (1973) and Synthajoy (1968) are first rate masterworks with Farewell, Earth’s Bliss (1966) and The Steel Crocodile (1970) close behind. All of his works have a distinctly English feel with solid, and occasionally beautiful, prose.
Chronocules (1970), with its outrageous variant [...]"
"D. G. Compton has long been one of my favorite SF authors. Regrettably, his readership remains small and he has ceased publishing SF. Novels like The Continuous Katherine Mortenhoe (variant title: The Unsleeping Eye) (1973) and Synthajoy (1968) are first rate masterworks with Farewell, Earth’s Bliss (1966) and The Steel Crocodile (1970) close behind. All of his works have a distinctly English feel with solid, and occasionally beautiful, prose.
Chronocules (1970), with its outrageous variant [...]"
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July 14, 2025DNF @Page 51 - may pick back up.
I love love love Roses, but the racism and misogyny are baked into the objective reality of the narrative SO HARD, and never questioned or challenged, that reading this book at all is beyond frustrating. man right. woman wrong, hysterical. fuck off.
I'm not here to listen to you bitch about women gaining power and independence as a social decline. fuck off.
the big boss is a penny pinching JEW. I put jew in all caps because that's the sentiment the book gives off. while I'm less sensitive to this issue than the ones stayed above, it's lazy and I'm happy to see the sentiment gone forever from publishing. fuck off.
other than that, I really really like it.
I love love love Roses, but the racism and misogyny are baked into the objective reality of the narrative SO HARD, and never questioned or challenged, that reading this book at all is beyond frustrating. man right. woman wrong, hysterical. fuck off.
I'm not here to listen to you bitch about women gaining power and independence as a social decline. fuck off.
the big boss is a penny pinching JEW. I put jew in all caps because that's the sentiment the book gives off. while I'm less sensitive to this issue than the ones stayed above, it's lazy and I'm happy to see the sentiment gone forever from publishing. fuck off.
other than that, I really really like it.
May 19, 2025
9.5/10
Yeah imma give a 9.5. Maybe my favorite sci fi book I’ve ever read and it’ll probably hold that spot for a while. Everything about this book is just incredible. It has some of the most beautiful, evocative and sophisticated prose in any book I’ve read, juxtaposed with dumb, adolescent fart humor which somehow amplifies the quality and it just works perfectly. Compton might by my favorite author after these first couple books I’ve read by him. This book is just great. Ah.
Yeah imma give a 9.5. Maybe my favorite sci fi book I’ve ever read and it’ll probably hold that spot for a while. Everything about this book is just incredible. It has some of the most beautiful, evocative and sophisticated prose in any book I’ve read, juxtaposed with dumb, adolescent fart humor which somehow amplifies the quality and it just works perfectly. Compton might by my favorite author after these first couple books I’ve read by him. This book is just great. Ah.
March 29, 2022
A stunner from the underappreciated Compton, who has written many intelligent and original science fiction novels of which few people seem to be aware.
March 31, 2017
Dire, and filled with the most astonishingly bad artistic choices. The writing is terrible, the setting unconvincing and the psychology of the characters unbelievable. I cannot think of a single reason why I would recommend this book to anybody.
November 18, 2020
Nothing memorable. Alternate titles were 'Chronicules' and, in the UK, 'Hot Wireless Sets', 'Aspirin Tablets, the Sandpaper Sides of Used Matchboxes' & 'Something That Might Have Been Castor Oil'.
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April 30, 2019I have the german edition: Die Zeit Molekuele
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