Anyone who survives a lightning strike knows what it means to be alive. When Vera is diagnosed with breast cancer for the second time, she moves back in with her cantankerous and entrepreneurial father, Zeno. It is the first time she has slept in the family home since her mother died, of the same cancer, almost a decade earlier. Wandering through this house which vibrates with solitude, Vera stumbles upon Zeno's most surprising secret: a novel. 

Vera herself is a writer, but she hasn't published work for years. Confined now to Quaderni, a village in the province of Verona, and haunted by signs of mortality, the discovery of her father's private fantasy world presents an unexpected opportunity.

Constructed between family visits, hospital appointments, and through fragments of memories, conversations, and the kernels of stories yet to be written, Struck is at once a delicate portrait of a family navigating life's catastrophes and a gently defiant celebration of the act of writing.

“Susanna handles illness and pain while remaining miraculously joyful.” Paolo Cognetti

“A family story, universal and intimate, poetic and persuasive…, a meta-novel full of grace that seeps into the readers’ hearts and beats page after page. A fluorescent bolt of lightening.“ La Stampa

“An intense literary novel… at once sparkling and intense in its expressive vivacity.”Il Corriere della Sera

“Struck is a book that speaks to the heart, in a reflection of the heart with which it was clearly written and translated.” Rosie Eyre, European Literature Network

"Susanna Bissoli has found, so to speak, a key for telling the story that isn't necessarily gloomy, but lets hope shine through even when things go badly." Gianluigi Bodi, Premio Comisso

"Struck is a must-read book for all those seeking a touching and profound read. It is a story that reminds us of the importance of family, love and hope." Marco Martini, Litis.it

"Bissoli returns with a work of surprising freshness and acumen." Michela Mastantuono, Universo Letterario

"In a succession of intense, hilarious, true dialogues, this book tells us the stubborn strength of family.” Manu Luna, Librangolo

"Struck is a novel about writing and the salvation hidden in words. But also about illness and returning to live. Dedicated to those who in these pages will know how to identify family traits of their own story and recognize on their own skin the marks of a struck one. You don't survive a lightning strike as if nothing happened.” Serena Votano, Magma Mag

"Bissoli is a transalpine author to watch from now on. The Fulgurés is a touching novel, brought to life by its realistic dialogues that convey the intimacy between characters." Caroline Martin, Benzine

"Susanna Bissoli sketches, through dialogues and comic skits, a tender family portrait brimming with life." Le Pèlerin

He rubs his knees, then stretches his hand and strokes a row of books on my shelves.

‘Still the same ones,’ he says.

‘Yep.’

‘Back and forth, with all those boxes! Do you think you’ll read them all again?’

‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘At least now you’ve got a place to keep them all. A home.’

‘Thanks to Mam.’

‘Listen…’

He looks directly at me, shielding his eyes with his hand. I lower the blind slightly.

‘Is it difficult to use, that thing?’ He’s looking at my laptop, open on the table.

‘Do you want to try?’

‘I wouldn’t know how.’

I insist further. He raises his eyebrows.

‘Give us a hand, will you?’ he says, through clenched jaws.

I offer my good arm to help him up from the bed (Ooh, ah!) and watch him straighten his shirt and put his hands on the table, lowering himself to sit down in front of my laptop.

‘To turn it on you have to press and hold this button.’

He beats his fist on the table.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘I’ve left my glasses in the car!’

I look around the room. I take the blue pair from the shelf above the bed and pass them to him. He turns them over for a moment in his hand.

‘Are these yours?’

‘No.’

‘So they’re your friend’s,’ he chuckles.

I don’t say anything.

‘What next?’ he asks.

I get my old mouse and a faded, well-worn mouse mat out of the drawer. I double-click on Word and tell him it’s like a typewriter.

‘Like I’ve ever used a typewriter!’

Both of his middle &ngers hover above the keyboard. His head smells like camomile shampoo. He’s got an enviable head of hair for an eighty-year-old man, soft and white. He’s always kept it fairly long and in the few photos he has from when he was a boy, it was curled into ringlets. I want to run my hand through it, to stroke those pink shoulders I used to rest my head on, and wait for him to tell me a story.

‘They’re all stuck together, why’s that then?’

I peer over the blue frame of Franco’s glasses and read. He has written: Theyhadbrokenupthepavementtodothesewers.

‘What kind of sentence is that?’ It strikes me as particularly odd because I’ve never heard a past perfect come from my father’s mouth.

‘A sentence,’ he says, twirling his hand.

‘You have to put in the spaces yourself.’

I show him how. I explain how to do capitals, how to put in commas, full stops, question and exclamation marks. A semi-colon, a colon.

‘I’m not bothered with them,’ he says. ‘Nor commas.’

‘Write something else, go on!’

I rest my hands on his shoulders. Instinctively he reaches up and strokes the back of my hand with his finger. We stay like that brie)y, pretending it’s nothing out of the ordinary, in front of the luminous screen. He keeps his eyes on the keyboard.

‘Where’s that bloody apostrophe?’

I show it to him near the question mark. He pulls his hand away slowly and starts writing again.

‘I’ll make us a coffee,’ I say.

‘Grand!’ he says, without taking his eyes off the screen.

When I come back with the tray, he’s written half a page.

‘You’re getting the hang of it.’

‘Ha!’

I bend down next to him. I read: That bloody leg, bloody bloody bloody leg I’ve had up to here of it a pain in the arse day and night a pain in the leg on its last legs now you’re pulling my leg talking the hind legs off a donkey table legs chair legs what a shame a right shame a right bloody shame you can’t buy a pair of legs.

I burst out laughing.