Psycho: We All Go A Little Mad Sometimes

MARION (after a pause, softly): Is your time so empty?

NORMAN: Oh, no! (forcing brightness again): I run the office, tend the cabins and grounds, do little chores for mother... the ones she allows I might be capable of doing.

MARION: You go out... with friends?

NORMAN: Well, a boy's best friend is his mother. You've never had an empty moment in your whole life. Have you?

MARION: Only my share.

NORMAN: Where are you going? I don't mean to pry...

MARION (a wistful smile): I'm looking for a private island.

NORMAN: What are you running away from?

MARION (alert): Why do you ask that?

NORMAN: No. People never run away from anything. (A pause) The rain didn't last very long. (Turning suddenly) You know what I think? I think we're all in our private traps, clamped in them, and none of us can ever climb out. We scratch and claw... but only at the air, only at each other, and for all of it, we never budge an inch.

MARION: Sometimes we deliberately step into those traps.

NORMAN: I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore.

MARION: You should... mind it.

NORMAN: Oh I do... but I say I don't. (Laughs boyishly)

MARION (staring at him, shaking her head softly): If anyone ever spoke to me, the way I heard... The way she spoke to you, I don't think I could ever laugh again.

NORMAN (controlled resentment): Sometimes when she talks that way to me I'd like to... curse her out and leave her forever! (A rueful smile) Or at least, defy her. (A pause, a hopeless shrug) But I couldn't. She's ill.

MARION: She sounded strong...

NORMAN: I mean... ill. (A pause) She had to raise me all by herself after my dad died... I was only five... and it must have been a strain. Oh, she didn't have to go out to work or anything, Dad left us with a little something... anyway, a few years ago... Mother met a man. He talked her into building this motel... We could have talked her into anything... and when. Well... It was just too much for her when he died, too... And the way he died... Oh, it's nothing to talk about when you're eating. (Pauses, smiles) Anyway, it was too much of a loss for my mother... she had nothing left.

MARION (critically): Except you.

NORMAN: A son is a poor substitute for a lover. (Turns away as if in distaste of the word)

MARION: Why don't you go away?

NORMAN: To a private island, like you?

MARION: No, not like me.

NORMAN: It's too late for me. And besides... who'd look after her? She'd be alone up there, the fire would go out... damp and cold, like a grave. When you love someone, you don't do that to them, even if you hate them. Oh, I don't hate her. I hate... what she's become. I hate... the illness.

MARION (slowly, carefully): Wouldn't it be better if you put her in... someplace...

[She hesitates. NORMAN turns, slowly, looking at her with a striking coldness.]

NORMAN: An Institution? A madhouse? People always call a madhouse "someplace." (Mimicing coldly) Put her in someplace!

MARION: I'm sorry... I didn't mean it to sound uncaring...

NORMAN (the coldness turning to tight fury): What do you mean about caring? Have you ever seen one of those places? Inside? Laughing and tears and cruel eyes studying you... and my mother there? Why, she's as harmless as... one of these stuffed birds.

MARION: I am sorry. I only felt... it seemed she was hurting you. I meant...

NORMAN (high fury now): People always mean well, they cluck their thick tongues and shake their heads and suggest so very delicately that...

[The fury suddenly dies, abruptly and completely, and he sinks back into his chair. There is a brief silence. MARION watches the troubled man, is almost physically pained by his anguish.]

NORMAN (quietly): 'Course, I've suggested it myself, but I hate to even think about it. She needs me... and it not as if... it isn't as if she were a maniac, a raving thing... it's just that... sometimes she goes a little mad. (Chuckling softly) We all go a little mad sometimes. Haven't you?