Dior Her Quotes

A woman's perfume tells more about her than her handwriting.

She [Whitley] was the only girl I knew who surveyed everyone like a leather-clad Dior model and rattled off Latin like it was her native language.

The sons of Dior and Nimloth were Elured and Elurin; and a daughter also was born to them, and she was named Elwing, which is Star-spray, for she was born on a night of stars, whose light glittered in the spray of the waterfall of Lanthir Lamath beside her father's house.

He sensed her aroma and greedily breathed in the fragrance. He must not let himself be duped. Those cunning bastards at Karl Lagerfeld and Christian Dior knew exactly what was required to trap a poor man.

she married my father, but she still sprinkled her phrases with French. “Do stop slouching.” “I can’t slouch in this getup.” I was crammed into a waist cincher like a band of iron, not that I needed one because I was built like a twig, but my froth of skirts wouldn’t hang right without it, so band of iron it was. That Dior, may he and his New Look rot in

I still felt like she was up to something down there, bitter and suffering as the flesh on her body withered and sank away from her bones. Did she blame me? We buried her in a carnation pink Thierry Mugler suit. Her hair was perfect. Her lipstick was perfect, blood red, Christian Dior 999. If I unearthed her now, would the lipstick have faded? Either way, she'd be a stiff husk, like the sloughed-off exoskeleton of a huge insect. That was what my mother was.

Gossip, even malicious rumors, are worth more than the most expensive publicity campaign in the world. What alarmed me most in the course of my stay in the United States was the habit of spending enormous sums of money in order to achieve so little real luxury. America represents the triumph of quantity over quality. Mass production triumphs; men and women both prefer to buy a multitude of mediocre things rather than a smaller number, carefully chosen. The American woman, faithful to the ideal of optimism with the United States seems to have made its rule of life, spends money entirely in order to gratify the collective need to buy. She prefers three new dresses to one beautiful one and does not linger over a choice, knowing perfectly well that her fancy will be of short duration and the dress which she is in the process of buying will be discarded very soon. The prime need of fashion is to please and attract. Consequently this attraction cannot be born of uniformity, the mother of boredom. Contemporary elegance is at once simple and natural. Since there is no patience where vanity is concerned, any client who is kept waiting considers it a personal insult. The best bargain in the world is a successful dress. It brings happiness to the woman who wears it and it is never too dear for the man who pays for it. The most expensive dress in the world is a dress which is a failure. It infuriates the woman who wears it and it is a burden to the man who pays for it. In addition, it practically always involves him in the purchase of a second dress much more expensive - the only thing that can blot out the memory of the first failure. Living in a house which does not suit you is like wearing someone else's clothes. There will always be women who cling to a particular style of dress because they wore it during the time of their greatest happiness, but white hair is the only excuse for this type of eccentricity. The need for display, which is dormant in all of us, can express itself nowadays in fashion and nowhere else. The dresses of this collection may be worn by only a few of the thousands of women who read and dream about them, but high fashion need not be directly accessible to everyone: it need only exist in the world for its influence to be felt.

Hillary, thinking Trump was a bigger donor than he actually was, had insisted they attend his 2005 wedding to Melania Knauss, despite a couple of aides warning her not to go. Hillary ended up sitting behind Shaquille O’Neal at the ceremony and could hardly see anything except the ninety meters of white satin tulle of Melania’s Dior gown pass down the aisle.

He had more than enough money to take care of them both, but he knew that Dior wouldn’t be satisfied until she had her revenge. Lloyd wouldn’t get hurt in the process…nothing would be hurt except for his pride.

Munchie was her cousin but they’d been raised like sister and brother. One day, a few weeks after Dior and Lloyd started dating, Munchie was murdered.

His dick was back hard and he was tempted to roll Dior on her back and hit her in the ass while she was still warm, but she had shit on herself. He shivered with disgust at thought of what he’d just contemplated doing.

As Dior watched her walk away, she breathed a sigh of relief that she’d been able to hold on to her secret a while longer.

For the first time since Dior had showed up to the condo, Keisha’s eyes dropped to her stomach and her heart broke with the realization of what she was seeing. Dior looked as if she couldn’t be any less than five months pregnant. Lloyd

Like Dior, Keisha was a hood chick, but she was the quiet type who played her position and didn’t give him any problems.

Lloyd had her all messed up in the head, competing for the love of a nigga who didn’t give a fuck about her.               Dior

He understood that Dior was mad, but he knew he could get her back. She wasn’t going anywhere.

Angel started to cry on the way. “I am so sorry, Anita.” The thick Goth eye makeup started to run down her face like black tears. She needed to switch brands. Mine didn’t run like that. Thank you, Dior.

—and every woman in the room thinks of her husband … with his cocoa-butter jowls and Dior Men’s Boutique pajamas … ducking into the bathroom and locking the door and turning the shower on, so he can say later that he didn’t hear a thing—

She wasn’t herself in this new love triangle. She was Dior and Tasha was her.

Keisha had been dealing with Lloyd for close to a year in hopes that he would one day replace Dior with her. But after today, she quickly realized that would never happen.

Over the past month Kenyon had fallen in love with Dior and wanted her to himself. He was tired of ducking and dodging a nigga who didn’t even appreciate her.

Four days after the incident with Lloyd and Dior, Lloyd had cut his losses and tossed her out on her ass. He gave her a wad of money,  had someone pack a few of the clothes that he’d bought her into a suitcase, and then sent her on her way.

Then were I not bound to ye aready by augur of my kin, I would still be bound to ye now.” The woman lifted her eyes to the bewildered girl. “Dior Lachance, by the heart of Fiáin and in sight of Father and Mothers, my fate is fixed to yours. If by my blood or boon or breath might ye be kept safe, I do here vow to give them all in yer service.

Miss Dior is born of a dream, a compulsive desire to create perfection. Adored by her maker, she seems more than an artefact. But like the alchemist’s treasured doll in Hoffmann’s eerie tale of ‘The Sandman’, she is unable to take on a life of her own.

Those few surviving friends and neighbours who knew Catherine tend to use the same word when they describe her: fort (strong).

But such was her fortitude that she stayed at Les Naÿssès until the age of ninety, living there alone after Hervé’s death in September 1989. She died on 17 June 2008, having continued to work in her garden almost until the

The original ‘May’ gown is still kept in the Dior archives, and one of the knowledgeable curators suggests that it was inspired by Catherine, as another annual tribute to her love of flowers. But instead, I picture Catherine wearing a timeless grey dress at the Palais de Justice, making her case, standing her ground.

She was not a woman given to physical expressions of affection – although he felt that she cared deeply about the people she loved. One of Laurent’s lasting memories of Catherine is her scent, for she always wore Miss Dior – every day, whether she was working in the garden or harvesting her roses.

Monsieur le president, I know what I’m saying. This affair cost people their lives, and now here they are, wrangling on behalf of these swine!’ Catherine’s outburst is at odds with her consistently measured demeanour during the course of the lengthy investigation

Le Monde gives her name, but refrains from saying that Catherine was related to Christian Dior. The New Yorker article does not refer to Catherine at all; neither does The Times of London, which described the scenes that had been portrayed in court as having taken on ‘the aspect of an inferno such as that conjured up by Dante’.

But I have come to believe that Catherine was possessed of a rare grace and inner strength that would have protected her from the jostling fashion crowd, with their sharp

she appears to be wearing her clothes simply to get on with life, rather than as a means to display her brother’s consummate artistry.

She loved her brother, and applauded his success, but she did not need the protection or disguise of

Catherine was named the ‘moral heir’, responsible for preserving Christian Dior’s artistic heritage; a task that she took on with her characteristic loyalty, ensuring that his autobiography remained in print, and that his couture creations would be preserved in various archives, as well as supporting the establishment of the Dior museum in Granville.

A former soldier who came to Callian on one of these occasions told me how he hadn’t met Catherine before, but he introduced himself as a veteran of a more recent war, and asked her about her own experiences. She looked taken aback, he remarked, but did not turn away from him. ‘She simply said, “Aime la vie, jeune homme…”’ Love life … Catherine’s own love of life is evident in her garden, for to plant olive trees, vines

I mean it," I told her, searching her eyes. "By the Blood, I vow it. I know not where this road will lead us, girl. But I'll walk it with you, to whatever fate awaits. And if God Himself should tear us asunder, if all the Endless Legion stood in my path, I would find my way back from the shores of the abyss to fight at your side. I'll not leave you, Dior." Reaching down, I squeezed her hands tight as I dared. ''I will never leave you.

Heads turned as Anya strutted the short distance from her desk to Samantha’s like it was her personal catwalk, wearing a denim minidress belted with a brightly patterned Dior scarf that violated Arrow Public Relations’ corporate dress code in half a dozen ways

In a letter she wrote to Alfred Stieglitz in November of 1909, she says, “I’ve just finished a big job for very little cash! A set of designs for a pack of Tarot cards 80 designs. I shall send some over—of the original drawings—as some people may like them!” Today this note strikes a chord that’s both sweet and sour. The thirty-one-year-old writing it had no inkling how renowned her images would become after they were published in 1910. The Rider-Waite tarot deck, as it came to be called (after Waite and the publisher, William Rider & Son), is now arguably the most successful and recognizable deck ever made, and it is the number-one-selling deck in America and England. Her complex, symbolic artwork has been a source of inspiration and deep meaning to card readers for more than a hundred years, not to mention its numberless appearances on everything from T-shirts to coffee mugs to haute couture dresses by Dior and Alexander McQueen.

The sound of my heels clicking against the floorboards bolsters my spirits. Grandma Belle used to say that a woman wearing her best red heels and favorite red lipstick can accomplish anything. There is some truth to her words. When Grandma Belle donned her red pumps and a glossy coat of Dior Rouge, she fairly glowed with an inner confidence that reduced men to obedient puppies. While I do not possess the classic beauty of Grandma Belle, nor do I think Macon Saint will ever act anything close to an obedient puppy, I do admit to feeling a bit more powerful in my red suede Jimmy Choos and Ruby Woo lipstick.