I really like Edd. He's always been one of my favorite people in the Cat Who... world. His character isn't the type that inspires ardent devotion - he's not a live-wire wit like Hixie or a caring, endearing mother-type like Iris Cobb or a tell-it-like-it-is spitfire like Amanda, characters with memorable dialogue who command the scenes they're in, but he lends ambience and authenticity to the books just by being present, and at a time when the series seems poised to consign him to Passing-Mention Character Oblivion in favor of the (truly) bland, vapid Kirt Nightingale, it makes me appreciate what he brings to the Cat Who...s all the more.
If my suspicions are correct, and Braun is planning to phase Edd nearly out of the picture, then she's picked a particularly rotten time to do so; in a series that in the past couple volumes has had both its hero and its attitude become increasingly self-important, Edd is utterly not so. Everything about the bookseller's outward appearance - his drab wardrobe, his soft-spoken voice - is designed to allow the man to fade inobtrusively into the background. He frets over the moral implications of taking out a small, quarter-page ad in the Something - the first advertising of any sort he's ever done, it turns out, since for Edd, doing something exclusively for the purpose of drawing attention to himself would be unseemly and rude. (It's implied that he took out the ad just to please Hixie, because the "nice young lady came in and told me I should".) Whenever the occasion arises for the little man to speak, he resorts to quotations from classical authors - it's almost as if he borrows the words of the greats because he doubts he has any words of his own worth listening to to offer.
But I might be giving the wrong impression here; devoid of self-importance does not mean devoid of self-worth, and the books make it clear that Edd is in several ways one of the most self-secure people in Moose County. Indeed, though he doesn't care for public bluster, Edd proves quite capable of firmly asserting himself, but only when the confrontation is unavoidable and the stakes serious (and saving and building social face and status is simply not important enough to Edd to start or involve himself in what he would see as petty disputes). Among Edd's meager personal possessions, as Qwilleran discovers much to his surprise, is a handgun, and the quiet man does have the wherewithal to carry the firearm into certain, appropriate situations (such as when he's cataloging the Fitches' valuable rare book collection in their large, vacant, unguarded mansion, shortly after a spate of yet-unresolved violence in the family), and the nerve - nerve culled from emergency, but nerve nonetheless - to wield it to hold at bay an attacker poised to bash Qwilleran's head in. He doesn't make the gun's presence known until the assault occurs, and after the incident near-instantly confesses that the gun was never loaded, a telling detail - Edd quite simply does not have the heart to actually murder anyone, but is practical enough to realize that the threat of force (and, in this instance, nothing further) is unfortunately at times necessary to avoid catastrophe. (It is notable that in the only instances in the series Edd acts out in this manner - once with the handgun, and once with loosening a wall fixture and causing a tapestry to fall off a wall, flattening another of Qwilleran's would-be attackers - he does so to defend his friend, not himself.)
I suspect Edd's everyday outward demure demeanor stems in part from his humble upbringing - his father was a door-to-door book salesman ("He never made much money," Edd says, "but he was honest and respected"), and he himself never received any formal higher education. Unblessed by the social status instantly assured by certified education or great wealth, he probably assumed that people, at least at the onset, would not think or expect much of him, but he also learned from his father to let his own deeds, and not other's thoughts about him, determine his identity - hence his resolute self-education and his dedication to his work. We see him experiment with socializing - joining the Theatre Club (though his hushed voice is obviously unsuitable for theatrical projection) and attending Qwilleran's surprise birthday party in Sniffed Glue - and while he seems to (eventually) enjoy his outings into the social sphere, his participation is borne more out of respect to his friends than of loneliness or need - he wants to do something with the people who show express concern for him, to show that he does appreciate their care and is not an aloof ingrate (even though the opportunities to do so that arise just don't suit his character very well). The example of the outlandish birthday party the Fitch brothers envision for Edd (complete with fireworks, a parade, and a mayoral proclamation of an Eddington Smith Day in Pickax) in response to the bookseller's comment that he'd never had a birthday celebration before illustrates this well - he delights in the idea of it, but the actual article is not necessary. He can warm up to contact with others and appreciates their thoughts, but is not reliant on them.
Instead, Edd's calling provides him with his sense of self. Being in his element emboldens him, brings the man to life; as opposed to his shrinking public persona, he speaks "softly but with authority" when interviewed by Qwilleran about caring for and repairing books, brightly discussing the nuances and details of his profession with the assurance and enthusiasm that comes from a skilled man who knows and loves his line of work. In a way, he's the inverse of Could Read Backwards's Mountclemens; Edd, too, is totally immersed into his own little world dedicated to the preservation of the classics and the arts, but as opposed to Mountclemens's rich, strictly private enclave, its composition tailored to indulge his tastes and ego, Edd's efforts provide him with very little personal gain - his trade dedicated to the protection of other people's treasures, his (not very profitable) shop acting as a sort of adoption agency for old, musty books on forgotten topics and subjects. Not that Edd minds; just being allowed to work with his beloved books gives him pleasure. He is utterly happy with what others would deem to be so little - but yet Edd wants for nothing else at all.
Edd's physical voice is hushed and small, but he's an invaluable spokesman for the intelligent and unpretentious in a series that, at its best, is an oasis of intelligence and lack of pretense - and that, based on recent outings, would do well to return to its roots. Including more of Pickax's modest guardian of the culturally forgotten would not be a bad start at all.
Back to the Ronald Frobnitz and Family index.