I was given the opportunity to read this novel before its release. This was my early praise:
Angela Woodward’s novel "Ink" shows us how, even when the evil is shocking—in this case the torture of detainees in Abu Ghraib prison—the mechanisms by which it’s processed and received can render it banal. It is by reverse-engineering this muffling through collocation of the testimonies with office politics, workaday busyness, Netflix thrillers, and histories of the materials of writing that Woodward un-disappears the ink. Reflecting on the “failure” of Francis Ponge’s "Soap," this novel curses all cleansers, all fresheners, all distractions, all entertainment, willing our national stains to set. Reading this book… it’s like I’d forgotten novels could be provocative.