Make Windows XP faster and optimal (without software)

Image of Windows XP is fast and we often complain optimal windows is running slow, long start, long shutdown. People we recommend to use special software that is useful so that the windows XP running faster and optimized. Software may be good, but free and does not usually require a high specification machine. With the tips we does not need to install any additional software to speed the performance of Windows XP You.
1. Using the NTFS file system
If you install new windows xp, use the NTFS file system. The file system is NTFS scandisk quickly accessible and also very fast. Do not use FAT, unless you want to can access the hard disk in Windows 98 without the additional software. Windows 98 can access the NTFS file with additional software: ntfs-reader or NTFS98.
2. Selecting startup programs that need to
This section should always be checked by you, because if a virus / spyware / malware, your computer is so slow. To open this startup, run the START -> RUN, type msconfig, open the startup tab. Here is visible all the programs that run at startup. You can check the one at the dihardware file, located in what folder. If you had, right-click the file
3. Turn off unnecessary services
Still in the msconfig window, open the services tab. This is a service that automatically run at Windows startup. There are some services that are not necessary and should be turned off, namely:
* Automatic Live Update Scheduler. This service if you do not want to automatically update the windows, or your computer is not connected to the Internet at all.
* Error Reporting Service. If you never see the window contents "error occurred ...." continue to have the option do not send or send. That is the order of this service. We usually do not choose send, so this service should be disabled.
* Live Update, the same as the Automatic Live Update Scheduler.
* Automatic Updates, the same as the Automatic Live Update Scheduler.
* Remote Desktop Help Manager. Used to help you if you difficulties or errors in the windows, you can ask your friends to access the computer From your remote (internet). If you never use, this service is off.
* Remote Registry. To access the registry (the file settings windows) from remote. Should be turned off.
* Uninterruptible Power Supply (UPS). This is only used if your computer use UPS, which is a useful tool to save electricity when power off. Disable this service if you do not use UPS.
* Event log Log.Windows record of what is going on in the windows. If you did not even use the log (in the Control Panel -> Administrative Tools), the service this can be turned off.
* Windows Audio. May be turned off if your computer without a sound card.
4. Minimize the visual effect
Open the Start Menu -> Control Panel -> System Properties. Go to the Advanced tab. Click on the Performance settings. In the Visual effects tab select Adjust for Best Performance. Then check Use the options on the visual styles for windows and buttons that display the windows you are such as Windows XP.
5. Optimal set of virtual memory
views and its properties, continue to see the version and who the author is. If Microsoft's or other sources that you trust means secure. If there is a program that does not need to, removed the check in line that would be disabled. Open the Start Menu -> Control Panel -> System Properties. Go to the Advanced tab. Click on the Performance settings. Click the Advanced tab. At the bottom there is the option Virtual Memory, click Change on any posts. Use custom size. Fill with:
Minimum: 1024 MB
Maximum: 2048 MB
6. Scan and defragmen regularly
Scan (once a week) and defragmen (once) your hard drive regularly. Open windows explorer, right click on your hard drive, select Properties. Open the tools tab. Select the error checking for running scan disk, defragmentation, and select-men to defragmen hardisk.
Such tips to make windows XP faster and be optimal, without additional software. Hopefully useful.

Harry Potter And The Sorcerers Stone

Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the last people you'd expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, because they just didn't hold with such nonsense.
Mr. Dursley was the director of a firm called Grunnings, which made drills. He was a big, beefy man with hardly any neck, although he did have a very large mustache. Mrs. Dursley was thin and blonde and had nearly twice the usual amount of neck, which came in very useful as she spent so much of her time craning over garden fences, spying on the neighbors. The Dursleys had a small son called Dudley and in their opinion there was no finer boy anywhere.
The Dursleys had everything they wanted, but they also had a secret, and
their greatest fear was that somebody would discover it. They didn't think they could bear it if anyone found out about the Potters. Mrs. Potter was Mrs. Dursley's sister, but they hadn't met for several years; in fact, Mrs. Dursley pretended she didn't have a sister, because her sister and her good-for-nothing husband were as unDursleyish as it was possible to be. The Dursleys shuddered to think what the neighbors would say if the Potters arrived in the street. The Dursleys knew that the Potters had a small son, too, but they had never even seen him. This boy
was another good reason for keeping the Potters away; they didn't want Dudley mixing with a child like that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Dursley woke up on the dull, gray Tuesday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things would soon be happening all over the country. Mr. Dursley hummed as he picked out his most boring tie for
work, and Mrs. Dursley gossiped away happily as she wrestled a screaming Dudley into his high chair.
None of them noticed a large, tawny owl flutter past the window. At half past eight, Mr. Dursley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek, and tried to kiss Dudley good-bye but missed
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Harry Potter The Pisioner Of Azkaban

Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he
hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another,he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret,in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard.
It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, theblankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one handand a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot)propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of hiseagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for somethingthat would help him write his essay, "Witch Burning in the Fourteenth
Century Was Completely Pointless discuss." The quill paused at the top of a likely-looking paragraph. Harry Pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read:
Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame Freezing Charm and then pretend to hriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than fortyseven times in various disguises.
Harry put his quill between his teeth and reached underneath his pillow for his ink bottle and a roll of parchment. Slowly and very carefully he unscrewed the ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, and began to write, pausing every now and then to listen, because if any of the Dursleys heard the scratching of his quill on their way to the bathroom, he'd probably find himself locked in the cupboard under the stairs for the rest of the summer.
The Dursley family of number four, Privet Drive, was the reason that Harry never enjoyed his summer holidays. Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia, and Read More.....

The Client

MARK WAS ELEVEN AND HAD BEEN SMOKING OFF AND ON
For two years, never trying to quit but being careful not to get hooked. He preferred Kools, his ex-Father's brand, but his mother smoked Virginia Slims at the rate of two packs a day, and he could in an average week pilfer ten or twelve from her. She was a busy woman with many problems, perhaps a little naive when it came to her boys, and she never dreamed her eldest would be smoking at the age of eleven. Occasionally Kevin, the delinquent two streets over, would sell Mark a pack of stolen Marlboros for a dollar. But for the most part he had to rely on his mother's skinny cigarettes.
He had four of them in his pocket that afternoon as he led his brother, Ricky, age eight, down the path into the woods behind their trailer park. Ricky was nervous about this, his first smoke. He had caught Mark hiding the cigarettes in a shoebox under his bed day before, and threatened to tell all if his big brother didn't show him how to do it. They sneaked along the wooded trail, headed for one of Mark's secret spots where he'd spent many solitary hours trying to inhale and blow smoke rings.
Most of the other kids in the neighborhood were into beer and pot, two vices Mark was determined to avoid. Their ex-father was an alcoholic who'd beaten both boys and their mother, and the beatings always followed his nasty bouts with beer. Mark had seen and felt the effects of alcohol.
He was also afraid of drugs. "Are you lost." Ricky asked just like a little brother as they left the trail and waded through chest-high weeds. "Just shut up," Mark said without slowing. The only time their father had spent at home was to drink and sleep and abuse them. He was gone now, thank heavens. For five years Mark had been in charge of Ricky. He felt like an eleven-year-old father. He'd taught him how to throw a football and ride a bike. He'd explained what he knew about sex. He'd warned him about drugs, and protected him from bullies. And he felt terrible about this introduction to vice. But it was just a cigarette. It could be much worse. The weeds stopped and they were under a large tree with a rope hanging from a thick branch. A row of bushes yielded to a small clearing, and beyond it an overgrown dirt road disappeared over a hill. A highway could be heard in the distance.
Mark stopped and pointed to a log near the rope. "Sit there," he instructed, and Ricky obediently backed onto the log and glanced around anxiously as if the police might be watching. Mark eyed him like a drill sergeant while picking a cigarette from his shirt pocket. He held it with- his right thumb and index finger, and tried to be casual about it. "You know the rules," he said, looking down at Ricky. There were only two rules, and they had discussed them a dozen times during the day, and
Ricky was frustrated at being treated like a child. He rolled his eyes away and said, "Yeah, if I tell anyone, you'll beat me up." "That's right." Ricky folded his arms. "And I can smoke only one a day." "That's right. If I catch you smoking more than that, then you're in trouble. And if I find out you're drinking beer or messing with drugs, then—" "I know, I know. You'll beat me up again." "Right." "How many do you smoke a day." "Only one," Mark lied. Some days, only one. Some days, three or four, depending on supply. He stuck the filter between his lips like a gangster.
"Will one a day kill me." Ricky asked. Mark removed the cigarette from his lips. "Not anytime soon. One a day is pretty safe. More than that, and you could be-in trouble."
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Player Piano

In the northwest are the managers and engineers and civil servants and a few professional people; in the northeast are the machines; and in the south, across the Iroquois River, is the area known locally as Homestead, where almost all of the people live. If the bridge across the Iroquois were dynamited, few daily routines would be isturbed. Not many people on either side have reasons other than curiosity for crossing. During the war, in hundreds of Iliums over America, managers and engineers learned to get along without their men and women, who went to fight. It was the miracle that won the war — production with almost no manpower. In the patois of the north side of the river, it was the know-how that won the war. Democracy owed its life to know-how.
Ten years after the war — after the men and women had come home, after the riots had been put down, after thousands had been jailed under the antisabotage laws — Doctor Paul Proteus was petting a cat in his office. He was the most important, brilliant person in Ilium, the manager of the Ilium Works, though only thirty-five. He was tall, thin, nervous, and dark, with the gentle good looks of his long face distorted by dark-rimmed glasses. He didn't feel important or brilliant at the moment, nor had he for some time. His principle concern just then was that the black cat be contented in its new surroundings. Those old enough to remember and too old to compete said affectionately that Doctor Proteus looked just as his father had as a young man — and it was generally understood, resentfully in some quarters, that Paul would someday rise almost as high in the organization as his father had. His father, Doctor George Proteus, was at the time of his death the nation's first National Industrial, Commercial, Communications, Foodstuffs, and Resources Director, a position approached in importance only by the presidency of the United States.
As for the Proteus genes' chances of being passed down to yet another generation, there were practically none. Paul's wife, Anita, his secretary during the war, was barren. Ironically as anyone would please, he had married her after she had declared that she was certainly pregnant, following an abandoned office celebration of victory.
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A Painted House

The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waisthigh to my father, over my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a "good crop."
They were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism only when discussing the weather and the crops. There was too much sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands, or the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the markets. On the most perfect of days, my mother would quietly say to me, "Don't worry. The men will find something to worry about." Pappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor when we went searching for the hill people. They were paid for every hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year, according to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard rumors that a farmer over in Lake City was offering $1.60. This played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never talked when he drove, and this was because, according to my mother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized vehicles. His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our old John Deere tractor, it was our sole means of transportation. This was no particular problem except when we drove to church and my mother and grandmother were forced to sit snugly together up front in their Sunday best while my father and I rode in the back, engulfed in dust. Modern sedans were scarce in rural Arkansas.
Pappy drove thirtyseven miles per hour. His theory was that every automobile had a speed at which it ran most efficiently, and through some vaguely defined method he had determined that his old truck should go thirtyseven. My mother said (to me) that it was ridiculous. She also said he and my father had once fought over whether the truck should go faster. But my father rarely drove it, and if I happened to be riding with him, he would level off at thirtyseven, out of respect for Pappy. My mother said she suspected he drove much faster when he was alone.
We turned onto Highway 135, and, as always, I watched Pappy carefully shift the gears-pressing

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Don't Be Sad

At a time in which the muslims are beset with trials from every periphery and within, come this hertening book rooted in the comandment of Allah, Azzawazala (the exalted), the sunnah and the excellent guidance and xample of the muslims that came before us.
Don't Be Sad is an important book foor all. it is full of partical advice on how to repel despair and replace it with a pragmatic and ultimately satisfying islamik outlook on life. it exposes to the modern reader how islam teaches us to deal with the tests and tribulation of this world.
this book kontain verses of the qur'an, saying of the prophet Muhamad (blessings and Peace be upon him) and of his companions as well as of wise. but it also containc saying of western and eastern thinkers and pilosophers, sayings that coincide with the truth.
This book, the culmination of deep and organized thought, says to your in short: "Be Happy, at peace, and joyful: and don't be sad."
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