L’histoire c’est simple: une domestique de Londres voit une robe Dior, et elle décide épargner pour pouvoir aller à Paris pour s’en acheter une.
Une vraie fashion-victim, n’est pas?
Une histoire sympa et douce, avec une morale qui récompenser l’effort qu’on fait pour les rêves pour réaliser nos rêves, et la vie décontracté.
Ecrit par Paul Gallico, bizarrement connu par son roman Poséidon, complètement différent. Une prose agréable et avec des intéressants réflexions. Mrs Harris me fais penser en les voguettes de nos jours. Elles apprécieraient la robe pour les mêmes raisons?
Malheureusement, n’est pas traduit en français, mais peut être vous pouvez pratiquer votre anglais.
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Flowers for Mrs Harris es uno de eso libros extrañamente encantadores, que por alguna razón nos encantan, nos dejan una sensación de una época pasada, que nos hacen ver la moda desde un punto de vista más sano.
La historia es sencilla : Una chacha de Londres ve un vestido de Dior y decide ahorrar para poder ir a Paris a comprarse uno.
Un autentica fashion victim, ¿Verdad ?
Una historia agradable y dulce, con una moraleja que premia el esfuerzo por conseguir los objetivos que nos proponemos, y la vida sencilla.
Escrita por Paul Gallico, curiosamente más conocido por escribir La aventura del Poseidón, obra completamente distinta. Una prosa sugestiva con interesantes reflexiones. Me gustaría saber si las voguettes de hoy en día apreciarian el vestido por las mismas razones.
Desgraciadamente, no esta traducido al castellano. ¿Por que no practicar vuestro inglés ?
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Flowers for Mrs Harris is one of those curious charming books, that we love, that let us a passed times feeling, that make us see fashion from a healthier angle.
It’s a simple story: A London chart fells in love with a Dior dress and she decides to eran enough money to go to Paris to buy one.
A sweet story, with a moral that pises the efforts to get our goals and the simple life.
Writen by Paul Gallico, autor of Poseidon. A nice prose, that leads into interesting reflections.
But now as she stood before the stunning creations hanging in the wardrobe she found herself face to face with a new kind of beauty - an artificial one created by the hand if man the artist, but aimed directly anc cunningly at the heart of a woman. In that very instant she fell victim to the artist; at that vey moment there was born within her craving to possess such a garment.
There was no rhyme or reason for it, she would never wear such a creation, there was no place in her life for one. Her reaction was purely feminine. She saw it and she wanted it dreadfully.
[...]
For it was one thing to enconcounter photographs of dresses, leafing through the slick pages of Vogue or Elle, where, wheter in colour or black and white, they were impersonal and as out of her world and her reach as the moon or the stars. It was quite another thing to come face to face with the real article to feast one’s eyes upon its every clever stitch, to touch it, smell it, love it, and suddenly to become consumed with the fires of 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.
[...]
Mrs Harris simply felt that if one owned a dress so beautiful that it cost four hundred and fifty pounds, then there was nothing left upon earth to be desired.
There was no rhyme or reason for it, she would never wear such a creation, there was no place in her life for one. Her reaction was purely feminine. She saw it and she wanted it dreadfully.
[...]
For it was one thing to enconcounter photographs of dresses, leafing through the slick pages of Vogue or Elle, where, wheter in colour or black and white, they were impersonal and as out of her world and her reach as the moon or the stars. It was quite another thing to come face to face with the real article to feast one’s eyes upon its every clever stitch, to touch it, smell it, love it, and suddenly to become consumed with the fires of 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.
[...]
Mrs Harris simply felt that if one owned a dress so beautiful that it cost four hundred and fifty pounds, then there was nothing left upon earth to be desired.
