Thuan-week-03

css/style.css

@@ -0,0 +1,41 @@
+body {
+    color: black;
+    font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;
+    padding: 10px;
+    margin-top:  10px;
+}
+
+p{
+    line-height: 1.5em;
+}
+h1 {
+    color: red;
+    font-size: 25px;
+    font-weight: 500;
+}
+
+.quote {
+    color: greenyellow;
+    font-size: 20px;
+    font-weight: 400;
+    background-color: black;
+}
+
+.quote.narrator{
+    color: black;
+   opacity: inherit;
+}
+
+#intro p {
+    color: blue;
+    font-size: 20px;
+    font-style: italic;
+    display: inline-block;
+    float: right;
+
+}
+
+.super-important-omg{
+    color: blue;
+    text-decoration: underline;
+}

index.html

@@ -34,7 +34,7 @@ <h3>
       From this broken state I passed into an almost abject felicity. I told myself that the duel had already begun and that I had won the first encounter by frustrating, even if for forty minutes, even if by a stroke of fate, the attack of my adversary. I argued that this slightest of victories foreshadowed a total victory. I argued (no less fallaciously) that my cowardly felicity proved that I was a man capable of carrying out the adventure successfully. From this weakness I took strength that did not abandon me. I foresee that man will resign himself each day to more atrocious undertakings; soon there will be no one but warriors and brigands; I give them this counsel: The author of an atrocious undertaking ought to imagine that he has already accomplished it, ought to impose upon himself a future as irrevocable as the past. Thus I proceeded as my eyes of a man already dead registered the elapsing of that day, which was perhaps the last, and the diffusion of the night. The train ran gently along, amid ash trees. It stopped, almost in the middle of the fields. No one announced the name of the station. <span class="quote narrator">“Ashgrove?”</span> I asked a few lads on the platform. <span class="quote">“Ashgrove,”</span> they replied. I got off.
     </p>
     <p>
-      A lamp enlightened the platform but the faces of the boys were in shadow. One questioned me, <span class="quote">“Are you going to Dr. Stephen Albert’s house?”</span> Without waiting for my answer, another said, <span class="quote ">“The house is a long way from here, but you won’t get lost if you take this road to the left and at every crossroads turn again to your left.”</span> I tossed them a coin (my last), descended a few stone steps and started down the solitary road. It went downhill, slowly. It was of elemental earth; overhead the branches were tangled; the low, full moon seemed to accompany me.
+      <span class="super-important-omg"> A lamp enlightened the platform </span>but the faces of the boys were in shadow. One questioned me, <span class="quote">“Are you going to Dr. Stephen Albert’s house?”</span> Without waiting for my answer, another said, <span class="quote ">“The house is a long way from here, but you won’t get lost if you take this road to the left and at every crossroads turn again to your left.”</span> I tossed them a coin (my last), descended a few stone steps and started down the solitary road. It went downhill, slowly. It was of elemental earth; overhead the branches were tangled; the low, full moon seemed to accompany me.
     </p>
     <p>
       For an instant, I thought that Richard Madden in some way had penetrated my desperate plan. Very quickly, I understood that was impossible. The instructions to turn always to the left reminded me that such was the common procedure for discovering the central point of certain labyrinths. I have some understanding of labyrinths: not for nothing am I the great grandson of that Ts’ui Pên who was governor of Yunnan and who renounced worldly power in order to write a novel that might be even more populous than the Hung Lu Meng and to construct a labyrinth in which all men would become lost. Thirteen years he dedicated to these heterogeneous tasks, but the hand of a stranger murdered him—and his novel was incoherent and no one found the labyrinth. Beneath English trees I meditated on that lost maze: I imagined it inviolate and perfect at the secret crest of a mountain; I imagined it erased by rice fields or beneath the water; I imagined it infinite, no longer composed of octagonal kiosks and returning paths, but of rivers and provinces and kingdoms . . . I thought of a labyrinth of labyrinths, of one sinuous spreading labyrinth that would encompass the past and the future and in some way involve the stars. Absorbed in these illusory images, I forgot my destiny of one pursued. I felt myself to be, for an unknown period of time, an abstract perceiver of the world. The vague, living countryside, the moon, the remains of the day worked on me, as well as the slope of the road which eliminated any possibility of weariness. The afternoon was intimate, infinite. The road descended and forked among the now confused meadows. A high-pitched, almost syllabic music approached and receded in the shifting of the wind, dimmed by leaves and distance. I thought that a man can be an enemy of other men, of the moments of other men, but not of a country: not of fireflies, words, gardens, streams of water, sunsets. Thus I arrived before a tall, rusty gate. Between the iron bars I made out a poplar grove and a pavilion. I understood suddenly two things, the first trivial, the second almost unbelievable: the music came from the pavilion, and the music was Chinese. For precisely that reason I had openly accepted it without paying it any heed. I do not remember whether there was a bell or whether I knocked with my hand. The sparkling of the music continued.