From The New Yorker, Talk of the Town, Nov. 28 2005:
A middle-aged man in the second row who had been snapping photographs of Baudrillard with a tiny camera raised his hand.[Link via Pottsy]
“I don’t know how to ask this question, because it’s so multifaceted,” he said. “You’re Baudrillard, and you were able to fill a room. And what I want to know is: when someone dies, we read an obituary—like Derrida died last year, and is a great loss for all of us. What would you like to be said about you? In other words, who are you? I would like to know how old you are, if you’re married and if you have kids, and since you’ve spent a great deal of time writing a great many books, some of which I could not get through, is there something you want to say that can be summed up?”
“What I am, I don’t know,” Baudrillard said, with a Gallic twinkle in his eye. “I am the simulacrum of myself.”
UPDATE: The Guardian's obituary is pretty good and includes this Baud-acious quote: "The Matrix is surely the kind of film about the matrix that the matrix would have been able to produce." (Shock and) Awesome!