Clare Malone

Clare Malone is a freelance writer and member of the editorial staff of The New Yorker. Her work has appeared in The American Prospect, The Daily Beast, Slate, Bloomberg View, and Rust Belt Chic: The Cleveland Anthology. She is a former Prospect web editor.

Recent Articles

Rob Ford's Tragedy, Our Shame

AP Images/Chris Young, The Canadian Press
To say that the world is cruel and that the Internet is a public square harsher than any stocks-strewn space the Puritans could have dreamed up is to state the obvious. The proven success of judgmental Web content is why we have to put up with Perez Hilton’s near nakedness at red-carpet events. That acknowledgement aside, I can’t help but find the coverage of Toronto Mayor Rob Ford—of crack-smoking and drunken-tirade infamy—more than a little off-putting. A video of a man presumed to be Ford smoking crack surfaced in May, and on Tuesday, he admitted to having used crack, “probably in one of my drunken stupors.” On Thursday, following the release of another video , this one showing the mayor in the midst of an expletive-filled tirade about his desire to commit “first-degree murder,” the mayor spoke to reporters , saying, “I hope none of you have ever or will ever be in that state.” Whether Ford was referring to his inebriation or his frame of mind isn’t clear, but it was a sad moment...

Jezebel Grew Up

Nikola Tamindzic
Nikola Tamindzic/Jezebel T he website Jezebel was born in 2007 out of the idea that the urban (or at least urbane) American woman was a ripe demographic, yearning to read about pop culture, fashion, and sex in a more skeptical way than the package provided by the traditional glossy women’s magazine. “In media, men are not a coherent sect,” Internet entrepreneur and Machiavellian overlord of Gawker Media Nick Denton told The New York Times in 2010. “You go into a magazine store and see rows upon rows of women’s magazines. [With women], there’s a much clearer collective.” The mother ship blog of Denton’s empire, Gawker, had made its name in the aughts by obsessively covering the then-Manhattan-centric media scene, turning its cool kids into Internet celebrities, their lives and movements chronicled, snarked at, and used as signifiers for Gotham’s ills and triumphs. Gawker media expanded to include a consortium of blogs focused on everything from sports (Deadspin) to gadgets (Gizmodo)...

On Seamus Heaney, Who Made Me Love Poetry

The Irish poet and Nobel laureate is dead at the age of 74. 

Seamus Heaney made me love poetry. There you have it, the schmaltz, right up top. But it is true, so I have to say it and today is as good a day as any to do so, because Seamus Heaney died while we were sleeping, at the age of 74. He was a teacher, a Nobel Laureate, and as you will surely read many times over in the coming days, the greatest Irish poet since Yeats and his swans. Heaney was born in Toombridge, Northern Ireland and much of his work was set in and spoke of life in Ulster—the ancient region that encompasses what is now the politically divided northern portion of the Irish island. Before it was revised to read “Derry,” the BBC’s obituary for Heaney called the county of his birth “Londonderry,” the name for the area favored by the British. It was a fitting reminder of the contorted history of the region—“The Troubles,” the euphemistic name for the violence that shaped life in the North, found its epicenter in Derry. Or, “Free Derry,” as the wall would have it. Though his...

Shonda Rhimes' Huma Abedin

AP Photo/ Donald Traill T he times are few and far between these days when news hounds and junkies—almost all devotees of Twitter—turn away from its blinking columns of information, away from the breaking story going through mitosis at the hands of a thousand bloggers and pundits, and focus their attention on the mother medium of television. A thousand ergonomic office chairs swiveled toward the boob tube late yesterday afternoon to watch the biggest boob in New York City—and that’s saying quite a bit, since I’m pretty sure Geraldo lives there—try to explain himself and his naughty texts to young women, rife with gonad selfies and the misuse of a certain Latin preposition. We all know what to expect at such press conferences. The warped tableau of the wicked—shirtsleeves and downcast eyes and fluorescent lighting and off-script rambling. Anthony Weiner’s life has turned into bread and circuses for the political masses—the fragile ego of the featherweight former congressman is ripe...

Old Wounds Reopened

Twelve years after 9/11, yesterday's attack reminds us of the fragility of our public safety.

AP Photo/Charles Krupa
AP Photo/Charles Krupa I am a Pavlovian creature. I was fourteen on 9/11 and my worldview has been so clouded by the ghost-gray Lower Manhattan smoke of that day, a specter unto itself, that it’s hard for me to see anything like the chaos of yesterday’s Boston Marathon bombing and not circle back to where I sat the night of September 11 , on the bed in my parents’ room, watching news reports and realizing that it was all much more horrible than I had realized. It was an endless loop of the moments of impact and the towers melting out of existence. People were falling from the sky. I sat there on my parents’ bed in Ohio, not knowing a soul in New York City or Washington, D.C., and cried because I’d never seen anything like it. The cinematic nature of the deaths was the most frightening part; stuff like this didn’t just happen in the movies anymore. Yesterday’s bombing of the Boston Marathon felt like that—unreal, sickeningly cinematic—like something a Batman villain would plot only to...