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Moments like this are buds on the tree of life. Flowers of darkness they are. A thing there was that mattered; a thing, wreathed about with chatter, defaced, obscured in her own life, let drop every day in corruption, lies, chatter. This he had preserved. Death was defiance. Death was an attempt to communicate; people feeling the impossibility of reaching the centre which, mystically, evaded them; closeness drew apart; rapture faded, one was alone. There was an embrace in death.
— Mrs. Dalloway
 (book)
by Virginia Woolf
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| Language: | English |
This text has been typed
20 times:
| Avg. speed: | 107 WPM |
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| Avg. accuracy: | 98.8% |
Top 10 scores for this text
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| 1 | nothisisjohn | 173 WPM | 100.0% | 231 | 1/2 | May 1, 2024 |
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| 2 | keegant | 164 WPM | 99.0% | 218 | 1/2 | Jan. 30, 2024 |
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| 3 | charlieog | 125 WPM | 97.0% | 167 | 1/2 | Feb. 17, 2024 |
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| 5 | mark40511 | 124 WPM | 99.0% | 165 | 1/2 | April 18, 2024 |
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| 6 | slowtexts | 99 WPM | 98.0% | 132 | 1/1 | Jan. 13, 2024 |
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| 7 | rektless | 84 WPM | 98.0% | 112 | 1/2 | March 16, 2024 |
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