The Unreliable Truth
Landru wasn't a friend of his so much as someone he visited when too
much unfocused human loathing built up in him. There was nothing
Landru did that did not bring more praise or riches showering down upon
him. The only thing more universally admired than Landru's art was
Landru himself. Landru had the common touch. Standing there in his
linen chinos and his two-hundred dollar chambray work-shirt, Landru
could converse just as easily with someone who made a hundred-thousand
a year as with someone who made a hundred times that much.
Landru's latest masterpiece and media sensation was a huge collage made
up largely of the paperwork for grants and commissions which Landru
had been offered but did not deign to accept. Landru was explaining to
a small crowd of viciously chic admirers that the government and most
large corporations were corrupt and immoral institutions.
As he listened to Landru go on about how both art and artist are demeaned and debased by
dirty money he found himself thinking that demeaned and debased were
two very overrated conditions.