From 643d9ceb308c206a6e572c7c555168ff0ca60bc1 Mon Sep 17 00:00:00 2001
From: Case Duckworth
Date: Fri, 27 Mar 2015 15:40:42 -0700
Subject: Fix #5: Verse typesetting
Thanks to the pandoc-discussion thread at
<https://groups.google.com/forum/#!topic/pandoc-discuss/_JnTJnsSK3k>,
line breaks in verse have been converted to <span class="line">s,
which enables the CSS to style them with hanging indents, given
a too-small viewport. This commit also includes a makefile edit to
reflect this change, and the Haskell source and executable of the
pandoc filter.
---
last-passenger.html | 6 +++---
1 file changed, 3 insertions(+), 3 deletions(-)
(limited to 'last-passenger.html')
diff --git a/last-passenger.html b/last-passenger.html
index 91de252..9a6508a 100644
--- a/last-passenger.html
+++ b/last-passenger.html
@@ -36,9 +36,9 @@
<section class="content verse">
- <p>Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a><br />over the <a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">nails of events</a> barely related,<br />creating finally some picture, if we’re<br />lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots<br />itself, catches on a nail or in our throats<br />that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.</p>
- <p>An example: today marks one hundred years<br />since your namesake, the last living passenger<br />pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks<br />a year since we last spoke. Although around<br />the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done<br />with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first<br />sound I heard outside my body that reached<br /><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">into my throat and set me ringing</a>. But that string—</p>
- <p>memory that feels sometimes more like a tide<br />has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,<br />the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart<br />is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex<br />its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness<br />of <a href="cold-wind.html">beating wings</a>, fly to me again, and alight,<br />singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.</p>
+ <p><span class="line">Memory works strangely, <a href="roughgloves.html">spooling its thread</a></span><span class="line">over the <a href="when-im-sorry-i.html">nails of events</a> barely related,</span><span class="line">creating finally some picture, if we’re</span><span class="line">lucky, of a life—but more likely, it knots</span><span class="line">itself, catches on a nail or in our throats</span><span class="line">that gasp, as it binds our necks, for air.</span></p>
+ <p><span class="line">An example: today marks one hundred years</span><span class="line">since your namesake, the last living passenger</span><span class="line">pigeon, died in Cincinnati. It also marks</span><span class="line">a year since we last spoke. Although around</span><span class="line">the world, zoos mourn her loss, I’m done</span><span class="line">with you. I mourn no more your voice, the first</span><span class="line">sound I heard outside my body that reached</span><span class="line"><a href="weplayedthosegamestoo.html">into my throat and set me ringing</a>. But that string—</span></p>
+ <p><span class="line">memory that feels sometimes more like a tide</span><span class="line">has yoked together, bound your voice to that bird,</span><span class="line">the frozen, stuffed, forgotten pigeon—my heart</span><span class="line">is too easy, but it must do—to blink, to flex</span><span class="line">its unused toes, slowly thaw to the wetness</span><span class="line">of <a href="cold-wind.html">beating wings</a>, fly to me again, and alight,</span><span class="line">singing full-throated, on my broken shoulder.</span></p>
</section>
</article>
<nav>
--
cgit 1.4.1-21-gabe81