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

Daily Meme: It's Complicated—The Wendy Davis Story

It's not going to be all pink sneakers and inspiring grassroots action this week for the Wendy Davis gubernatorial campaign down in Texas. On Saturday , T he Dallas Morning News broke the story that key facts of her hard-scrabble, single-mother biography had been "blurred" by the campaign: Davis was divorced at 21, not 19, the age which she and her campaign had asserted her first marriage ended; she spent only a few months living in a mobile home before moving to an apartment; and her second husband gave her significant financial help to pay for her time at Harvard Law School. “My language should be tighter ... I’m learning about using broader, looser language. I need to be more focused on the detail,” Davis says in the article, and on Monday , her campaign released a statement that Davis officially filed for divorce at age 20, and that it became final when she was 21. After clarifying her biography, the Davis campaign took a swing at Davis's opponent, Texas Attorney General Greg...

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...

Pages