The Stubborn Light of ThingsWhen I lived in London I barely noticed the winter solstice. Nothing slowed, contracted or dimmed to mark the shortest day of the year, for, like all cities, London has all but left such trifling considerations behind. But now I am in Suffolk, and the difference could not be more marked. I wake in dim half light, the yellow windows of nearby farmhouses glimmering across frost white fields. At three the rooks begin to gather in the leafless trees, and