Un PC frileux ?

[Alleuze↑↓]

Les crapauds vivent dans des cavernes humides. C'est absolument irréfutable. Voilà ce que dit John Dryden, librettiste du semi-opéra de Purcell The Indian Queen (je cite la tirade en entier, pour faire plaisir à l'Onc' A***, anglomane bien connu sur ce forum) :

I deeply thank you, sir.

Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.

Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.

Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.

Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.

William Henry Davies

[quadro↑↓]

Effectivement c'était bien ça.

Une alimentation No Name à l'agonie, que je viens de virer pour une Antec Eco machin 400W
achetée ce soir chez GrosBill à deux pas de chez moi.

Mine de rien y'a une grosse différence de poids et de finition entre les deux.
J'ai retrouvé un PC stable et rapide, et maintenant plus silencieux.

Merci en tout cas pour vos conseils les amis.

Et comme disait ma grand-mère, "pour un coup de foudre, faut que le courant passe...."

CT

Tu as patienté depuis février… 

[quadro↑↓]

I deeply thank you, sir.

Now, joy is born of parents poor,
And pleasure of our richer kind;
Though pleasure's free, she cannot sing
As sweet a song as joy confined.

Pleasure's a Moth, that sleeps by day
And dances by false glare at night;
But Joy's a Butterfly, that loves
To spread its wings in Nature's light.

Joy's like a Bee that gently sucks
Away on blossoms its sweet hour;
But pleasure's like a greedy Wasp,
That plums and cherries would devour.

Joy's like a Lark that lives alone,
Whose ties are very strong, though few;
But Pleasure like a Cuckoo roams,
Makes much acquaintance, no friends true.

Joy from her heart doth sing at home,
With little care if others hear;
But pleasure then is cold and dumb,
And sings and laughs with strangers near.

William Henry Davies

Que serait le monde sans poésie ?… Probablement, un monde d'ennui et de renoncement permanent !

[Cartel↑↓]

Hors sujet, une courte ode (très) détournée au son des lampes trouvée dans Song Of Myself de Whitman.

"“Loafe with me on the grass—loose the stop from your throat;
Not words, not music or rhyme I want—not custom or lecture, not even the best;
Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice."  

[Alleuze↑↓]

Something to think about :

English is a very peculiar language that I will grant,
E.g. there’s no ham in hamburger or egg in the eggplant,
Many foreign visitors never quite manage to grapple,
With the fact that there is no pine or apple in a pineapple,
English muffins were not invented in England in fact,
And French fries were not invented in France to be exact,
But if foreigners can’t understand us I don’t give a fig,
If a guinea pig is not from Guinea and its not even a pig,
So what if Quicksand takes you down slowly, who cares?
And does it matter if the Boxing rings are really squares...

[Cartel↑↓]

Thank you, Professor Higgins.  

[Alleuze↑↓]

There is more, my good man.

Like these sad considerations on woman bring to the attention of Lord Krapow...

The perfect woman
Doesn’t fart
Like a trumpet sounding
But rather it is released
Like she’s gently sighing

The perfect woman
Doesn’t belch
Out the word Bulawayo
But rather releases it
Behind her hand delicately

The perfect woman
Doesn’t sweat
Or anything like as vulgar
If they overheat
The darlings just perspire

The perfect woman
Doesn’t swear
Only shit and maybe bloody
If they stub their toe
Its sod it or even buggeration

The perfect woman
Doesn’t exist
They fart and blame the cat
They belch and blame the food
They sweat and blame the change
They swear and blame the man


Arf, the face of Pascal94 while reading that...  

[Cartel↑↓]

Let's have a bit of American contemporary poetry.


Portrait of a Lady


Your thighs are appletrees
whose blossoms touch the sky.
Which sky? The sky
where Watteau hung a lady's
slipper. Your knees
are a southern breeze -- or
a gust of snow. Agh! what
sort of man was Fragonard?
-- As if that answered
anything. -- Ah, yes. Below
the knees, since the tune
drops that way, it is
one of those white summer days,
the tall grass of your ankles
flickers upon the shore --
Which shore? --
the sand clings to my lips --
Which shore?
Agh, petals maybe. How
should I know?
Which shore? Which shore?
-- the petals from some hidden
appletree -- Which shore?
I said petals from an appletree.

William Carlos Williams

[Crapaud taré↑↓]

Tu as patienté depuis février… 

Oui avec le retour de la chaleur, le phénomène avait disparu.

Et là avec ce séduisant mois d'Octobre, re-cata.

Avec coupures aléatoires après 15 mns... 2 h.

Alors, avant d'avoir des dégats irréparables, je suis passé à l'action.

Je ne peux que constater la différence, un peu comme quand tu changes de lunettes.

CT

[dubsystem↑↓]

C'est cool, tu as eu au moins des réponses. En ce moment c'est ma CM qui est en rade. T'as pas une idée, de la famille, des amis, des poteaux Verts bienveillants, des animaux, des martiens qui auraient réponse à ma question ?