‘… but with me, there is a long period of delayed adolescence the photographs of which I loathe – here is one, a passport taken about 1921 – doesn't it look a weak, silly, undeveloped youth – and yet I was of quite mature years, and had been through all sorts of hell, there is nothing in the portrait to show it.’ (13 August 1931); T. S. Eliot, ca. 1921.