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Norman: The rain didn't last long, did it? [Pause] 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: Sometimes, we deliberately step into those traps. Norman: I was born in mine. I don't mind it anymore. Marion: Oh, but you should! You should mind it! Norman: Oh, I do, [laughs] but I say I don't. Marion: You know, if anyone ever talked to me the way I heard — the way she spoke to you... Norman: 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. Marion: She sounded strong. Norman: No, I mean... ill. She had to raise me all by herself after my father died. I was only five and it must have been quite a strain for her. She didn't have to go to work or anything like that. He left her a little money. Anyway, a few years ago, Mother met this man, and he talked her into building this motel. He could have talked her into anything. And when he died too, it was just too great a shock for her. And, and the way he died. I guess it's nothing to talk about while you're eating. Anyway, it was just too great a loss for her. She had nothing left. Marion: Except you. Norman: A son is a poor substitute for a lover. Marion: Why don't you go away? Norman: To a private island, like you? Marion: No, not like me. Norman: I couldn't do that. Who'd look after her? She'd be alone up there. The fire would go out. It'd be cold and damp like a grave. If you love someone, you don't do that to them - even if you hate them. You understand that I don't hate her. I hate what she's become. I hate the illness.

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