Norman Bates: Well, a son is a poor substitute for a lover.
Marion Crane: Why don't you go away?
Norman Bates: What, to a private island like you?
Marion Crane: No, not like me.
Norman Bates: I couldn't do that. Who would look after her? The fire in her fireplace would go out. It would be cold and damp up there like a grave. If you love sombody, you wouldn't leave them even if they treat your badly. Do you understand? I don't hate my mother. I hate at what she's become. I hate her illness.