Escribe George Orwell en su clásico The Road to Wigan Pier:
Before I had been down a mine I had vaguely imagined the miner stepping out of the cage and getting to work on a ledge of coal a few yards away. I had not realized that before he even gets to work he may have had to creep along passages as long as from London Bridge to Oxford Circus.
In the beginning, of course, a mine shaft is sunk somewhere near a seam of coal; But as that seam is worked out and fresh seams are followed up, the workings get further and further from the pit bottom. If it is a mile from the pit bottom to the coal face, that is probably an average distance; three miles is a fairly normal one; there are even said to be a few mines where it is as much as five miles.
But these distances bear no relation to distances above ground. For in all that mile or three miles as it may be, there is hardly anywhere outside the main road, and not many places even there, where a man can stand upright.
Y después me topo con este video.
(en Neuron Culture)
Hoy no viajé en metro; usé el metrobus para ir al norte de la ciudad a grabar unos videos. La densidad de pasajeros era tan poca que parecía mañana de domingo: alguno dormitaba, otro empañaba el cristal con el excesivo y siempre reprobable “gel”. En un asiento iban la mochila y el tripié para la cámara, en el otro yo. Y nadie cerca. Pero no tomé fotos.
Lo único bueno del calor es que me recordó el final de un poema de Philip Larkin.
Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh