I was one of the critics who misconstrued Kane as a shock merchant when I excoriated her debut Blasted in 1995, along with the Daily Mail’s Jack Tinker (the naming of the torturer here may be a wry joke: Jack’s review and his notebook, meanwhile, are in the V&A theatre galleries). Her suicide four years later - enshrining her as tragic, depressive and misunderstood - made it even harder to appraise her work coolly.