It's book on cinema, I thought to myself after being drawn to the first book on the top shelf, the moment I saw Alfred Hitchcock's famous silhouette on it. A closer inspection revealed it to be a book of fictional short-stories. I took it nevertheless, expecting something in the lines of his TV shows and movies.
It turned out to be a cheap work of literature. The stories are from Alfred Hitchcock's "Mystery Magazine", conceived and published posthumously by the producers of his show "Alfred Hitchcock Hour". They possessed the rights of his name and merely used it to sell that cheap work of fiction.
It's full of deliberate grammatical fallacies in every story to give it a "realistic" touch:
"I don't not need none of this."
"She don't know me."
"I don't learn nothing."
One only feels like strangling the writers who wrote that twaddle.
