Hitchcock hated the language of film criticism which evolved with the century; when Hitchcock helped his granddaughter with an essay she was writing on Shadow of a Doubt, his favourite of all his films, she only got a C grade. “That’s the best I can do,” he shrugged.
It’s normally the province of critics, interviewers, and historians to analyze the mechanisms of creative work. Their efforts are important, because creative people are usually bad at talking about what they’ve made. Artists such as Ingrid Bergman, Pablo Picasso, and Bob Dylan answered questions about their work for years, but their answers tended to come down as rock slides of near gibberish: unsolid, unhelpful, and full of indirection. Hitchcock, by contrast, was the rare late-modern craftsman who not only knew exactly what he was trying to do but could lay it out in words. If you’re the sort of person who believes that lasting art is often born through the constraints of craft—that genius has a way of creeping in as restless virtuosos push against the pressures of a market, trying to meet the demands of a mainstream audience—then the Hitchcock interviews emerge as a creative Rosetta Stone.
Nathan Heller, The Book That Gets Inside Alfred Hitchcock’s Mind, The New Yorker, August 12 2016, (from here)
Hitchcock/Truffaut is a 1966 book by François Truffaut about Alfred Hitchcock, originally released in French as Le Cinéma selon Alfred Hitchcock.[ First published by Éditions Robert Laffont, it is based on a 1962 exchange between Hitchcock and Truffaut, in which the two directors spent a week in a room at Universal Studios talking about movies. After Hitchcock’s death, Truffaut updated the book with a new preface and final chapter on Hitchcock’s later films.