[In the following review, Eble provides a mixed evaluation of King of the Mountain.]

"I shall never finish a symphony," Brahms wrote. "You have no idea how it feels to hear behind you the tramp of a giant like Beethoven." Such a candid admission applies to all artists whose creativity is shaped not only by their own hands but by the hands of one or more of their predecessors. For American short story writers, the tramp of the giant has likely as not been that of Ernest Hemingway. Since Hemingway, one might say, it has been impossible for a young writer to work within a range of style and subject matter which has been too clearly marked by the hand of the master. In Mr. Garrett's first story in this collection, "The Rivals," a boy and his father square off in a manner as sharply defined as the way the bull-fighter faces the bull. In the stories about men and women the men are insensitive and sleep with other women; the women say "You bastard," and frequently cry; both are baffled by sexual relationships and lace their conversation with "I don't know," or "You just don't know." The over-all impression one receives from this collection is that here is a writer of undeniable talent who has not yet found his own voice.

Unlike some first collections of short stories, this collection makes little attempt to strike out in original directions either in style or matter. It is almost as if Mr. Garrett were a conservatory student writing out academic compositions in the manner of Haydn or Mozart or Chopin. In this respect the book is vexing even as it is impressive.

The stories throughout are extremely well-done. The technique, even when imitative, is of a high order. The mind behind the style is perceptive and at times penetrating. And derivative or not, such stories as "The Seacoast of Bohemia," "The King of the Mountain," and "Don't Take No for an Answer" capture character, situation, and mood, and arouse the reader's feelings. This aroused response turns to a kind of disappointment when one can't rid himself of the feeling that these are re-pressings of old masters. Our age puts more stress upon originality of expression than many ages past. Imitation is, for us, a nasty word. Nevertheless, there seems some point in insisting that whatever model the artist uses and however much he draws upon the past, he must fashion for himself a voice which can be recognized as his own. It may be that Mr. Garrett, who is a poet as well as a short story writer and who is planning his first novel, is not yet ready to move toward establishing and refining his own distinct style. When he does, he will be able to draw upon a very impressive talent.