Ulysses - James Joyce

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Fed and feeding brains about me: under glowlamps, impaled, with faintly beating feelers: and in my mind's darkness a sloth of the underworld, reluctant, shy of brightness, shifting her dragon scaly folds. Thought is the thought of thought. Tranquil brightness. The soul is, in a manner, all that is: the soul is the form of forms. Tranquility sudden, vast, candescent: form of forms.

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Name WPM Accuracy
gordonlew 123.12 100%
koalakai 116.20 99.0%
gunna 115.31 97.2%
magnificentlyposh 110.31 96.3%
magnificentlyposh 109.52 95.5%
user76248 108.46 93.2%
user59977 107.60 98.7%
est3ban 103.85 96.0%

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