Dior Quotes

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

By being natural and sincere, one often can create revolutions without having sought them.

Happiness is the secret to all beauty. There is no beauty without happiness.

You look like Cinderella," said Val in awe. "Yeah, if she'd been into bondage and had Christian Dior for a godmother.

life without books is a life not lived, Dior. There’s a magik like no other to be found in them. To open a book is to open a door – to another place, another time, another mind. And usually, mademoiselle, it’s a mind far sharper than your own.

Fuck,’ I sighed. “‘Fuuuck,’ Dior said. “‘… Fuuuck?’ I asked. “‘Fuuuuuuuuck,’ he nodded.

Happiness is the secret to all beauty; there is no beauty that is attractive without happiness.

You're stunning, Kyrie. Whether you're done up in Dior and jewels, or just woken up in a sundress and messy hair, you are, very honestly, the most lovely woman I've ever know. You don't need fancy hair and makeup to take my breath a way away, Kyire. You just have to be you.

Don't buy much but make sure that what you buy is good.

A life without books is a life not lived, Dior. There’s a magik like no other to be found in them. To open a book is to open a door—to another place, another time, another mind. And usually, mademoiselle, it’s a mind far sharper than your own.

It seemed to Rebus that the more expensive something was, the less of it there always seemed to be: tiny little hi-fi systems, watches without numbers, the translucent Dior ankle-socks on Michael’s feet.

High heels? Painful pleasure.

It is unforgivable to do what one doesn't love, especially if one succeeds.

Women are most fascinating between the ages of 35 and 40 after they have won a few races and know how to pace themselves. Since few women ever pass 40, maximum fascination can continue indefinitely.

Zest is the secret of all beauty.

If I'm going to meet the devil you better believe I'm wearing Dior

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.

Not too many years ago, the names of our perfumes bore testimony to such things. There was a popular scent called Tabu, there was Sorcery, My Sin, Vampire, Voodoo, Evening in Paris, Jungle Gardenia, Bandit, Shocking, Intimate, Love Potion, and L'Heure Bleue—The Blue Hour. Nowadays what do we find? Vanderbilt, Miss Dior, Lauren, and Armani, perfumes named after glorified tailors"—there were murmurs and gasps in the audience—"names that evoke not the poetic, the erotic, the magic, but economic status, social snobbery, and the egomania of designers. Perfumes that confuse the essence of creation with the essence of money. How much sustenance can the soul receive from a scent entitled Bill Blass?

Make me a fragrance that smells like love.

If a man can't love you for who you are, he's not worth The Dior Gloss.

Quintana's christening was in 1966, this Christian Dior show was two years later, 1968: 1966 and 1968 were a world removed from each other in the political and cultural life of the United States but they were for women who presented themselves a certain way the same time. It was a way of looking, it was a way of being. It was a period. What became of that way of looking, that way of being, that time, that period? What became of the women smoking cigarettes in their Chanel suits and their David Webb bracelets, what became of Diana holding the champagne flute and the one of Sara Mankiewicz's Minton plates? What became of Sara Mankiewicz's Minton plates?

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.

Hope is for fools, Historian.” Gabriel met the vampire’s eyes. “Hope gets you killed. Hope walks into the fire. Faith leaps over it. I didn’t hope Dior was alive. I believed it.

Those cunning bastards at Karl Lagerfeld and Christian Dior knew exactly what was required to trap a poor man. She smelled wonderful.

Una vida sin libros es una vida no vivida, Dior. En los libros hay una magya que no se encuentra en ningún otro sitio. Abrir un libro es abrir una puerta: a otro lugar, a otro tiempo, a otra mente.

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.

Smiling slyly, pleased with herself, Lady Dant shut the wardrobe door, but she could not shut out from the mind of Mrs Harris what she had seen there: beauty, perfection, the ultimate in adornment that a woman could desire. Mrs Harris was no less a woman than Lady Dant, or any other. She wanted, she wanted, she wanted a dress from what must be surely the most expensive shop in the world, that of Mr Dior in Paris.

One day we are looking at the Magnum photograph of Sophia Loren at the Christian Dior show in Paris in 1968 and thinking yes, it could be me, I could wear that dress, I was in Paris that year; a blink of the eye later we are in one or another doctor's office being told what has already gone wrong, why we will never again wear the red suede sandals with the four-inch heels, never again wear the gold hoop earrings, the enameled beads, never now wear the dress Sophia Loren is wearing.

The offices are decorated with neon-Louis XVI furniture and are dominated by grey, Mr. Dior’s favourite colour when he opened the famous house on avenue Montaigne back in 1947. The design is even more stunning than I remembered: both chic and understated, with lots of open space –the apex of luxury. The silk curtains dressing the window fall to the floor like ball gowns, delicate silver vases holding pink roses have been artfully placed throughout the room, and grey and white settees and oval-backed chairs provided artful seating areas.

It is a popular modern idea. That the inner us is something different to the outer us. That there is an authentic realer and better and richer version of ourselves which we can only tap into by buying a solution. This idea that we are separate from our nature, as separate as a bottle of Dior perfume is from the plants of a forest. As far as I can see, this is a problem with living in the twenty-first century. Many of us have every material thing we need, so the job of marketing is now to tie the economy to our emotions, to make us feel like we need more by making us want things we never needed before. We are made to feel poor on thirty thousand pounds a year. To feel poorly travelled if we have been to only ten other countries. To feel too old if we have a wrinkle. To feel ugly if we aren’t photoshopped and filtered.

Une fois, il m'a dit que j'étais belle. Il y a plus de vingt ans et j'avais un peu plus de vingt ans. J'étais joliment vêtue, un faux air de Dior; il voulait coucher avec moi. Son compliment eut raison de mes jolis vêtements. Vous voyez, on se ment toujours. Parce que l'amour ne résisterait pas à la vérité.

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

Gabriel, if this is victory...what the hell does defeat look like?

It is astonishing how the passing of one night permits one to isolate that which one did not really like, from that which one adores!

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A generational curse is like an anchor—stuck and sunken in a place it was never meant to stay. It cannot rise on its own; it needs the very hands that cast it down to lift it back to light.

Yet not all the Eldalië were willing to forsake the Hither Lands where they had long suffered and long dwelt; and some lingered many an age in Middle-earth. Among those were Círdan the Shipwright, and Celeborn of Doriath, with Galadriel his wife, who alone remained of those who led the Noldor to exile in Beleriand. In Middle-earth dwelt also Gil-galad the High King, and with him was Elrond Half-elven, who chose, as was granted to him, to be numbered among the Eldar; but Elros his brother chose to abide with Men. And from these brethren alone has come among Men the blood of the Firstborn and a strain of the spirits divine that were before Arda; for they were the sons of Elwing, Dior’s daughter, Lúthien’s son, child of Thingol and Melian; and Eärendil their father was the son of Idril Celebrindal, Turgon’s daughter of Gondolin.

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.

And there fate bound Diores son of Amarynkeus; for he was struck beside the ankle by a jagged stone on his right shin; the leader of the Thracian men hurled it, Peiros son of Imbrasos, who had come from Ainos. Bone and both tendons the ruthless stone utterly crushed; and he fell on his back in the dust, stretching his hands to his beloved companions, breathing out his soul; and he—Peiros, the man who wounded him—ran up, and with his spear struck Diores beside his navel; all his bowels were poured out upon the ground, and darkness covered his eyes.

My aunts were elegant American women, dressed in silk and fur, with diamond rings and charm bracelets and other bracelets as heavy as chains. Their moving hands were jangling, they were playing a symphony in gold. The style of these people was so different from mine. They were as strange to me as I must have looked to them. That fall of 1947, women's fashions had changed entirely. While I left Bucharest, went through Europe for a month, a new `look' was launched in Paris by Christian Dior. Skirts were long, coats big and long, a sloppy style, a `new look', the Dior style.

Come now, Tichy. For half a century civilization hasn't been left to its own devices. A hundred years ago a certain Dior was dictating fashions in clothing. Today this sort of regulating has embraced all walks of life. If prostheticism is voted in, I assure you, in a couple of years everyone will consider the possession of a soft, hairy, sweating body to be shameful and indecent. A body needs washing, deodorizing, caring for, and even then it breaks down, while in a prostheticized society you can snap on the loveliest creations of modern engineering. What woman doesn't want to have silver iodide instead of eyes, telescoping breasts, angel's wings, iridescent legs, and feet that sing with every step?

Asia so degraded, so corrupted by the colonial era and by its own crowdedness that it can only choose between depravity and the puritan orgy of communIsm. The women of Thailand are so beautiful that they have become the hostesses of the Western world, sought after and desired everywhere for their grace, which is that of a submissive and affectionate femininity of nubile slaves - now dressed by Dior - an astounding sexual come-on in a gaze which looks you straight in the eye and a potential acquiescence to your every whim. In short, the fulfilment of Western man's dreams. Thai women seem spontaneously to embody the sexuality of the Arabian Nights, like the Nubian slaves in ancient Rome. Thai men, on the other hand, seem sad and forlorn; their physiques are not in tune with world chic, while their women's are privileged to be the currently fashionable form of ethnic beauty. What is left for these men but to assist in the universal promotion of their women for high-class prostitution?

So now I was a beauty editor. In some ways, I looked the part of Condé Nast hotshot—or at least I tried to. I wore fab Dior slap bracelets and yellow plastic Marni dresses, and I carried a three-thousand-dollar black patent leather Lanvin tote that Jean had plunked down on my desk one afternoon. (“This is . . . too shiny for me,” she’d explained.) My highlights were by Marie Robinson at Sally Hershberger Salon in the Meatpacking District; I had a chic lavender pedicure—Versace Heat Nail Lacquer V2008—and I smelled obscure and expensive, like Susanne Lang Midnight Orchid and Colette Black Musk Oil. But look closer. I was five-four and ninety-seven pounds. The aforementioned Lanvin tote was full of orange plastic bottles from Rite Aid; if you looked at my hands digging for them, you’d see that my fingernails were dirty, and that the knuckle on my right hand was split from scraping against my front teeth. My chin was broken out from the vomiting. My self-tanner was uneven because I always applied it when I was strung out and exhausted—to conceal the exhaustion, you see—and my skin underneath the faux-glow was full-on Corpse Bride. A stylist had snipped out golf-ball-size knots that had formed at the back of my neck when I was blotto on tranquilizers for months and stopped combing my hair. My under-eye bags were big enough to send down the runway at Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week: I hadn’t slept in days. I hadn’t slept for more than a few hours at a time in months. And I hadn’t slept without pills in years. So even though I wrote articles about how to take care of yourself—your hair, your skin, your nails—I was falling apart.

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.

if you watch your mouth, you don't have to watch your back.

Men, build wealth by making strategic, long-term financial decisions that actually make a difference. Women, that Dior purse ain’t it, you cow.

They’re like Robin Hood without the thieving. Dark knights in Dior.

It took me a while to understand that everyone’s problems are not mine, their burdens are not mine, and the demons are not mine either, so when I wake up in the morning, I pray, and before the night is over, I do the same.

By the time he was done, the sun had gone down. “All right, I’m done. You want to come check it out?” I got off the table and stretched then walked over to him to see what he’d done. I looked at the painting and frowned. It was a painting of a damn stick figure. “I know you fucking lying!

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.

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

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.

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’.

On 25 November 1952, the annual celebration of St Catherine’s Day was held at the house of Dior, as was customary in the couture business. The French tradition, which continues at Dior, is for unmarried women, known as Catherinettes, to wear fancy-dress hats. ‘It is on St Catherine’s day that you should really visit

There is nothing gayer than St Catherine’s day. Each workroom has its own orchestra … there is one continuous ball.

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.

Wishing that a lucky star continues to shine for you and lights up this

beautiful house of “La Colle”. With all the greatest tenderness, from your Catherine.

He portrayed Catherine as reserved, discreet, but possessed of strength and great dignity. She never spoke of the war, he said, nor of personal matters; as Laurent observed, ‘the dictionary of Catherine Dior would not have many words within it.

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.

She was not a ‘femme de fashion’, but she was always elegant, said Laurent; always poised and well dressed.

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.

La Colle Noire took some time to sell, and passed through several hands before it was bought in 2013 by Christian Dior Parfums (now part of the mighty LVMH group, as is the Dior fashion business).

In early July 1944, at the same time as Catherine was arrested in Paris, the hilltop villages of Callian and Montauroux were surrounded by the Germans and searched, house by house, resulting in fifteen members of the Resistance being captured, interrogated and imprisoned.

On 15 August 1944, the same day that Allied troops landed on the nearby Mediterranean coast, and Catherine was deported from Paris to Ravensbrück, Ramonda took part in an operation to hold back a German convoy until the United States Army Air Forces could intervene. He

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

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

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

There was no physical tenderness; but she always knew what to do if there was a problem.

For four years, we worked, we searched, like alchemists in pursuit of the philosopher’s stone. And then Miss Dior was born … Because, you see, for a perfume to ‘hold’, it must first be held for a long time in the hearts of those who created it. CHRISTIAN DIOR

Instead, Catherine would become associated with the scent of Miss Dior, a perfume launched at the same time as the couture brand.

A life without books is a life not lived, Dior. There’s a magik like no other to be found in them. To open a book is to open a door – to another place, another time, another mind. And usually, mademoiselle, it’s a mind far sharper than your own.

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.

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.

Paris was already renowned for its gay and lesbian subcultures – homosexuality had been decriminalised in 1791 at the time of the French Revolution – and Catherine and Christian were both working in the fashion business, a milieu that celebrated talented gay men. Many were well known to Christian: Edward Molyneux, for example, and Georges Geffroy, who began his career at the couture maison of Jean Patou before turning to interior design. Unlike his openly gay friends Jean Cocteau and Christian Bérard, Dior tended to be discreet about his private life – a consequence, perhaps, of his Catholic upbringing – but his sister was an integral part of it. When in 1938 he fell in love with an urbane young man named Jacques Homberg, he did not keep the relationship secret from Catherine.

Roughly one third of France’s male population between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven died in the war.

I would have FedExed you one of my sweaters,” I joked. “And you could have worn it like a hug.” “Would you have sprayed it with Dior?” I laughed, happy that she remembered my brand of perfume. “Absolutely.

You’re less scared of life’s unpredictability when you know you won’t be facing it alone

We were driven to Chanel, No. 31 Rue Cambon. Three hours later, they returned us to the Ritz. The ladies changed into Christian Dior couture before heading to No. 30 Avenue Montaigne for our next appointment at the House of Dior.  Afterwards we had a light lunch at the Ritz before they donned Emanuel Ungaro couture and proceeded to our final appointment for the day at No 2 Avenue Montaigne.

After the showing, Monsieur Bohan came to greet the ladies. I was speechless, since this was the first time I had met a real-life international designer, face to face. I was tongue tied and did not utter a word. After a brief conversation with the ladies, Mr. Bohan noticed that I was staring at him so he came over to extend his hand. I was so nervous my palms started perspiring when he said, "Soyez bienvenus à la Maison de Dior, le jeune homme. Quel est votre nom?” (Welcome to the House of Dior, young man. What is your name?) I replied, timidly, "Mon nom est Jeune.

Zest is the secret of all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without zest. —CHRISTIAN DIOR, French fashion designer

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.

Zest is the secret of all beauty. There is no beauty that is attractive without zest.” – Christian Dior

Within the tiny changing space (four poles draped with fancy velvet) hung a dozen fabulous couture gowns from internationally well-known designers such as Christian Dior, Givenchy, Chanel, Yves Saint Laurent, Valentino and Emanuel Ungaro. I was in seventh heaven having this rare and unexpected opportunity to study and scrutinize these exquisite designer dresses. I turned every garment inside out to see how they were sewn, beaded and constructed. That day, floating in a parade boat along other vessels in the middle of the Grand Canal in historic Venezia, my fashion schooling had begun. It was the first day of my professional fashion education.

The city looked marvelous with its dazzling skyscrapers. I felt lost within the Big Apple. The never-ending attractions were calling me. The streets were filled with people. It was like the world was touching the sky. The paths didn’t seem to stop anywhere. There were platforms of happiness and shops of dreams: Prada, Zara, Giorgio Armani, Gucci, Givenchy, Jimmy Choo, Versace, Dior, Bloomingdale, all of them. There was no lack of fun and happiness. Yet in the entire city, there was a strange silence, a cold passion. Every set of eyes seemed to be lonely. Everyone was together yet disconnected and I felt so miserable that I puked while we were passing Macy’s in the cab.

Welllll,” she hesitated. “Come on Antoine Dodson, we don’t have all day!” Dior was getting impatient.

A man will only do what you allow him to do,

Dune by Christian Dior. Luca Turin, who wrote a fragrance guide, calls it ‘the bleakest beauty in all perfumery.’ Here,

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.

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.

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.

Someone had broken into his home, invading the sanctuary of his prized possession, Dior and his unborn child. And not just that, they had stolen jewelry and other items.

On the screen was Kenyon and Dior in a tight embrace as they shared a passionate kiss. It was right after they had set what they believed was the scheme of the year. They’d staged everything at the home as a robbery and stolen all of Lloyd’s money out of the main vault on the lower level of the home.

Dior Mitchell-Evans was the only black spot in Keisha’s otherwise blemish-free relationship.

Hurt by his revelation, Keisha threatened to break things off immediately, until he pulled out a stack of papers; divorce papers that he had been planning to have served to Dior as soon as he got a chance to get the financial details

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

Unlike Keisha, Dior knew the truth about Lloyd. Every