The candle is a commodity object, first invented in China and adopted in europe at around 400 CE. Commodity objects bring with them a slew of challenges. They are bought often, which mean that the packing material must be as minimal as possible. Further, any left over material which is not used, is only waste. Commodities often have a shelf life, so durability is of the essence.
The candle, however, is happily free of many of these problems. Though they are made from organic material, they have a very long shelf-life. Stearin candles are essentially a form of fat, but seem blessedly free from spoiling. I'm not sure, but I think this is because the energy of the candle is safely hidden away behind a costly door. Only a flame will set off the chain reaction to release a candles energy, without that it is very hard for, say, bacteria, to enjoy a good meal off your candles.
Since candles keep well they are rarely protected well. Many candles can be bought as they are. I buy my candles in packets of 24. They are stacked neatly in a cardboard box. What could be simpler?
And if there is little waste before using, there is literally none after. The wick and wax burns, obliterating itself as it goes. It burn mine completely down, leaving little but half a centimetre of black wick, and a millimeter of wax. As a commodity object, nearly nothing beats the candle.
Candles are also blessedly inexpensive. I pay 3NOK, or 50 cents per hour of a candle burning - which I consider a cheap delight. Well, I guess this one depends. As a source of light candles are horribly inefficient, releasing merely a hundredth of the light of and incandescent light bulb for the same amount of energy. At any point the candle produces about 80W of heat. A wall mounted electric heater often runs at 800W, which means that ten candles would replace it. At 4 cents per hour for the oven per hour, the candles would be more expensive by a factor of ten. Again, not the most efficient use of energy.
But I don't buy candles for the utility they used to have, but for the aesthetic pleasure they now give me. Candles give off a beautiful yellow light, and the flame itself - a translucent and dynamic sculpture that casts no shadow, is an object worth the attention of the eye. Over and above the visual pleasure, the philosophical categories a candle inhabits give me enormous pleasure. A candle is an object which consumes itself in it's duty, a material object without a shadow, and it is a dead thing made from a live thing which is described as alive, and which burns that which would have been the energy reserves of the animal itself, the fat. A candle is the defiance of the pig whence life was snuffed out to produce it - the life after death. How fitting it is that the ultimate end of that life flame comes in the form of a breath.
As metaphors go the candle is a strong one. At one point in our history candles were used to measure time - but they weren't very good at it. My candles burn for a steady 6 hours - but milage varies depending on air humidity and airflow. This time aspect of candles has also been linked to death - captured in proverbs such as "the candle which burns twice as bright burns half as long", or "burning one's candle at both ends". But I rarely think of candles this way.
Candles are mostly given their meaning for me, through their use. I only take out candles when I feel I have the time to enjoy them. Like flowers, they have a limited life - but candles demand more. Flowers imply transience, but merely die silently if left unattended. Not so with the candle. The candle you leave unattended kills you. When you light a candle, it will have your attention, but in return it gives light and heat - two of lifes best necessities.
The highest pleasure is the leisure to burn a candle uninterrupted, from the first lighting of the wick to its self deletion - because this means an evenings worth of calm and beautiful ours. Of awakened attention. Of enlightenment.
Postscript: A Description of a Candle
I bought white and odourless candles from Ikea - two palms high and a thumb's girth. At one tip, the wick, on the other a furrowed and narrowing pattern - tallow ready to crumble to fit the holder. It does. As I put it in place I feel the pattern bulge like packed snow. I light the wick with a match. The fringed end sears quickly and blackens. The tip of the candle drops outwards - at the end nearly as wide as the candle - but right before a sharp edge cuts it off, leaving the tip looking inorganic - machine-like, fashioned by a knife while spinning. The sharp tip melts as the match comes near, providing the first fuel for the wick. I can feel the melting wax, filling the pores in the fibers, sucking upwards through capillary action.
The wick is now burning, but not burning. Only a small glow at the end, like on a cigarette, tells of smouldering. It is surrounded by the much powerful flame - but seems impervious. "Immolation is not my game", it seems to say, "I prefer to cinder". Except for a millimeter at the base, the wick is now totally black - bendt like the end of an old man's cane.
The flame envelops the wick, cobalt blue and a luminous bronze. Only some way up is the flame solid. This is the only place where one must divert one's eyes. Where we are denied a longer look. This solid block covers a translucent cap, again covering the wick. The wick, from that stem the stearin fumes - but invisible. Only when the fuel mixes with the air does ignition occur, so around the wick there is little light. A darkness, compared to the shimmering peak. But from this darkness, to the side, erupts an edge of serrated blue - the holiest part of the flame. Then, on the crowning tip, the redder edge - often forked.
The wick stands in a molten lake of shimmering fat, and once still and moving. A crater has formed around the flame, from which the fuel sweats. But no sooner does it pool, and it is sucked into the fibrous center, then tossed into the air for its final cremation. It is a shimmering pool, but its light is drowned by its funeral pyre.
From afar a candle's light is too defuzed to have a strong effect. But on itself it has an almost violent presence. It strikes into the candle and scatters - lending the tip a warm glow of its own. From there the contrast fools my eye. The white candle is white no more, and turns a yellowish grey. This is the part that waits.
I move my hand around the candle. The same warmth is felt a palms width from the candle, as four palms height above. I strain to think how warmth and light are only variations of the same, when they give such different effect. But then the visible has always had more sway with the living, and the living flame most of all.
