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Mannequin Quotes

Browse 12 quotes about Mannequin.

Mannequin Quotes

“It's time to shop high heels if your fiance kisses you on the forehead.”

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Book:Wealth of Words
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“Dresses don't look beautiful on hangers.”

InspirationalWritingBelievePhilosophyWisdomHumorMotivationalQuotesBeliefEnergySexPerfectBeautyKnowledgeComedyFashionDesignHumourConfidenceSpeechClothesFemaleHotSexySelf ConfidenceFearlessMovieStoryRhetoricJeansOld FashionedCurvesCreative WritingInheritanceModelingSlogansAmit KalantriGarmentsAmit Kalantri QuotesPublic SpeakingProverbsWardrobeTrust YourselfFaceSocial NetworkingBloggingInterior DesignCelebrityCharactersCosmeticsAmit Kalantri WriterAdageNovel WritingFashion DesignerBook WritingFlameEssayBoldFashion IndustryScriptOutfitsAdvertisementBlogMovie DialogueCoolScript WritingDressCatchphrasesAlliterationsPrettyTag LinesScriptwritingCatch LinesSpeechwritingApparelPunchlineFashion QuotesRampDressingHotnessHangersFashion StatementMake UpTrendCatwalkCostumeOutfitGod GivenFigureClothes QuotesTrendingDudeDressing SenseMake Fun OfFashionsMakeoverPage 3MannequinFace CreamBorn WithKitty PartyWearing ClothesTailorBody CurveLooking HotDressmakersHangerPut On Quotes
Book:Wealth of Words
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“When she opened her eyes they were confronted by a musical box against the opposite wall - one of those early Bavarian toys where mechanical figures perform to the tune. 'How odd,' she thought. The little stage showed a group of fiddlers, two couples in costumes like those of the ball she had just quitted, and in a doorway at the side, a gypsy or beggar man. Very faintly the distant waltz came to her ears, but no footsteps ringing in the abandoned halls. With her hand pressed to her unsteady heart, acting under a sudden compulsion, she pushed down the lever. Delicate plucked music started up; the fiddlers sawed with their clumsy arms in time to an ethereal waltz. The couples moved jerkily out and each raised an arm to clasp its partner. To various clicks and rumbles from under the floor they began to revolve with each other and to orbit round the room. Their movements were sinister because of being both reluctant and predestined. Here they were and this is was what they must do. ("Many Coloured Glass")”

SinisterToyMannequinAutomata
Book:Ghost stories
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“March 1898 What a strange dream I had last night! I wandered in the warm streets of a port, in the low quarter of some Barcelona or Marseille. The streets were noisome, with their freshly-heaped piles of ordure outside the doors, in the blue shadows of their high roofs. They all led down towards the sea. The gold-spangled sea, seeming as if it had been polished by the sun, could be seen at the end of each thoroughfare, bristling with yard-arms and luminous masts. The implacable blue of the sky shone brilliantly overhead as I wandered through the long, cool and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned by seamen and foreigners. I was alone, subjected to the stares of prostitutes seated at their windows or in the doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. Leaning on the sides of tall bay-windows or huddled in doorways, they were silent. Their breasts and arms were bare, bizarrely made up in pink, their eyebrows were darkened, they wore their hair in corkscrew-curls, decorated with paper flowers and metal birds. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, or tall mannequin dolls left behind in panic - for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic brought from the Orient by sailors, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of love, abandoned by the men on the doorsteps of the brothels. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these girls were dead, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their carmine plaster masks... and my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask... and the girl in the next doorway was also masked... and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude colouring... I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, worse than the masks... when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead women were alive. Their vitreous eyes were looking at me... I woke up with a cry, for in that moment I had recognised all the women. They all had the eyes of Kranile and Willie, of Willie the mime and Kranile the dancer. Every one of the dead women had Kranile's left eye and Willie's right eye... so that every one of them appeared to be squinting. Am I to be haunted by masks now?”

DreamDeathMaskNightmareDeadPlaguePuppetsDecadenceMasksCholeraTownProstitutesMannequinsMannequinAutomataMarionettes
Book:Monsieur de Phocas
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“The other evening, in that cafe-cabaret in the Rue de la Fontaine, where I had run aground with Tramsel and Jocard, who had taken me there to see that supposedly-fashionable singer... how could they fail to see that she was nothing but a corpse? Yes, beneath the sumptuous and heavy ballgown, which swaddled her and held her upright like a sentry-box of pink velvet trimmed and embroidered with gold - a coffin befitting the queen of Spain - there was a corpse! But the others, amused by her wan voice and her emaciated frame, found her quaint - more than that, quite 'droll'... Droll! that drab, soft and inconsistent epithet that everyone uses nowadays! The woman had, to be sure, a tiny carven head, and a kind of macabre prettiness within the furry heap of her opera-cloak. They studied her minutely, interested by the romance of her story: a petite bourgeoise thrown into the high life following the fad which had caught her up - and neither of them, nor anyone else besides in the whole of that room, had perceived what was immediately evident to my eyes. Placed flat on the white satin of her dress, the two hands of that singer were the two hands of a skeleton: two sets of knuckle-bones gloved in white suede. They might have been drawn by Albrecht Durer: the ten fingers of an evil dead woman, fitted at the ends of the two overlong and excessively thin arms of a mannequin... And while that room convulsed with laughter and thrilled with pleasure, greeting her buffoonery and her animal cries with a dolorous ovation, I became convinced that her hands no more belonged to her body than her body, with its excessively high shoulders, belonged to her head... The conviction filled me with such fear and sickness that I did not hear the singing of a living woman, but of some automaton pieced together from disparate odds and ends - or perhaps even worse, some dead woman hastily reconstructed from hospital remains: the macabre fantasy of some medical student, dreamed up on the benches of the lecture-hall... and that evening began, like some tale of Hoffmann, to turn into a vision of the lunatic asylum. Oh, how that Olympia of the concert-hall has hastened the progress of my malady!”

DecadenceSingerCorpseDecadentDecadentsMannequinE T A HoffmannDrollAlbrecht Durer
Book:Monsieur de Phocas
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“You know, a carving, especially if it’s polychrome, is not meant to move. These faces, these half-bodies, when you animate them, they’re more live than the living. They can be dangerous for those who don’t really understand them. With contained energy, no one can predict what will happen when it’s released.”

PuppetsPuppetMannequinsMannequinMarionetteDummiesMarionettes
Book:Paris Noir: The Secret History of a City
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