Understand ... I don't hate her, I hate what she's become. I hate her illness.

In Psycho IV, the time is five years after III, and Norman is out of the hospital. He's a married man, and he's finally learned how to love somebody and have natural sex without killing his lover.

A phenomenon that might seem only backwards or silly when expressed at a social level becomes madness at the individual level.

Mental illness turns people inwards. That's what I reckon. It keeps up forever trapped by the pain of our own minds, in the same way that the pain of a broken leg or a cut thumb will grab your attention, holding it so tightly that your good leg or your good thumb seem to cease to exist.

I wanted to tell her that if only something were wrong with my body it would be fine, I would rather have anything wrong with my body than something wrong with my head, but the idea seemed so involved and wearisome that I didn’t say anything. I only burrowed down further in the bed.

Here's the hell of it: madness doesn't announce itself. There isn't time to prepare for its coming. It shows up without calling and sits in your kitchen ashing in your plant. You ask how long it plans to stay; it shrugs its shoulders, gets up, and starts digging through the fridge.