You could say that Little Mirror is a book-length conversation with an inanimate object. Or you could say it's a monologue in forty-seven fragments told to a different kind of fragment - a piece of mirrored glass. Or it's a confession made to a listener who cannot hear. Or a cri de coeur to a fellow traveller who cannot feel. Or a series of meditations on failure and grace and how to live, addressed to a companion who can reflect but not reflect on.

This is a book whose plain talk with a thing of little value becomes a refiner's fire to burn away self-deception and dishonesty and replace it with clarity.