Mother! Oh God, mother! Blood! Blood!
A son is a poor substitute for a lover.
Dirty night.
Norman Bates: Where are you going?Norman Bates: I didn't mean to pry.Marion Crane: I'm looking for a private island.Norman Bates: What are you running away from?Marion Crane: Why do you ask that?Norman Bates: People never really run away from anything. The rain didn't last long, did it? You know what I think? I think that we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever get out. We scratch and we claw, but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch.Marion Crane: Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps.Norman Bates: I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore.Marion Crane: Oh, but you should. You should mind it.Norman Bates: Oh, I do...Norman Bates: But I say I don't.Marion Crane: You know... if anyone ever talked to me the way I heard... the way she spoke to you...Norman Bates: Sometimes... when she talks to me like that... I feel I'd like to go up there... and curse her... and-and-and leave her forever! Or at least defy her! But I know I can't. She's ill.
