Sam Kinchin-Smith

Mnemonic (at the National Theatre until 10 August) isn’t really a play about memory, or memory aids or triggers, though it’s quite insistent that it is. And its main narrative threads do function a little like memories, in that they assemble coherent stories from fragmentary records and resonant objects.

The coincidence of the centenary of Kafka’s death, on 3 June, and the publication of the first complete, uncensored English translation of his diaries a month before, is less straightforward than it seems. There are more obvious texts through which to tell the story of his last days.

The chance meetings, narrow escapes and spooky coincidences that fill Shakespeare’s romances are also a feature of the histories and provenances of the 235 surviving copies of the First Folio.

The bay of Elefsina, the modern name for ancient Eleusis, is a graveyard for ships named after gods and nymphs. 

What happens when you accidentally write a perfect song? You get a measly slice of the pie, is one answer – but also, possibly, the last laugh. That seems to be what’s happened to the Walkmen: the authors, though not exactly the beneficiaries, of the New York garage rock revival’s best song.