The Last Flame Before Edison

There was a time, not so long ago, when the night arrived gently—like an old friend tapping on the shoulder. It didn’t flood in with a glare or sweep across a cityscape in a grid of neon lines. It crept in quietly, and we met it with a little flame. A saucer of oil, the rendered fat of the deep-sea shark, poured with care. A cotton wick, frayed from an …