It is regrettable that the Advocate should be at a low ebb in its Registration Issue, when it wants most to impress prospective buyers. Small consolation though it may be to the new subscriber, the latest issue, with the single exception of John Ratte's fine cover portraying his conception of the bowels of the MTA, is below par. The editors have attempted to compensate for the dearth of material with a new art supplement, which is generally a good idea, albeit a third of the collection might well have been omitted.

Another interesting innovation is a brace of Provencal albas, translated by Norman Shapiro. These albas, one the song of a knight with his lady; the other that of his watching friend, are by far the most intriguing poetic contributions to the magazine. Of the four undergraduate's poems published, Greely Curtis' speculations on death are the most acceptable. Although the poem is not inspired, it is well-turned, with a pleasing repetition of phrase structures. Both of Robert Johnston's two offerings are well-conceived, but their execution is sometimes muddled by clumsy syntax and a rather loose use of diction. Through the thoughts of a door-to-door salesman who feels guilty for having "sold knives to the women of levittown," Peter Heliczer protests against the impersonality of modern life. The salesman, however, expresses this protest so melodramatically and with such inordinate sensitivity, that it all seems incredible. Heliczer may have intended an entirely different meaning for his poem. If so, the key must lie in the deep and unknown significance of the word "levittown."

The prose in this issue is more understandable than the poetry, but on the whole it is no more exciting. S. R. Abt has written a good description of an awkward scene between a man and his mistress. Although Abt's characterizations are good enough, he ends his story so abruptly that it is no more than a sketch.

Bob Cumming's story is a more ambitious attempt both in its stylistic devices and in its deeper search for his subject's psychic needs. Although Cummins shows some insight into the insecurity of a fatherless Negro boy, his experiments with style are not half so successful. In order to gain immediacy Cummins uses the present tense throughout his narration, a dangerous and difficult patli on which he slips occasionally, especially when attempting to introduce background information.

"The Idol Maker" by Bruce Fearing is the best of a mediocre bunch of stories. A penetrating study of an habitual young liar and his motives for lying, Fearing's story is written and concluded strikingly. His style, however, betrays a small debt to Faulkner ("Jimmy looked at the crude statuette in the palm of his hand. LIAR, LIAR, LIAR, he squeezed it, hoping it would crumble to pieces. . ."), a debt which is hardly concealed by the use of capitals. Although Fearing's story is not likely to live on in anthologies, it is still the best in a rather scant summer issue.