Fuck!

     It is curious that my obsession with you does not pass. Perhaps it is a deeply wounded pride, the pride of never having accepted the end of our relationship. While you breathe the clear, fresh air of freedom, I have not been able to breathe properly for years. Pride? Perhaps. Even so, I sense a great fear in you. I have said this before, but it bears repeating. Repression can be a powerful form of denial—a cowardly way of refusing to face what we once loved so much. I no longer search for explanations; for a long time I tried, in vain, to analyze your psychology. You are no longer the same person, and neither am I. This is the only poor yet viable explanation I can find: repression. Fear. What other motive could make you so determined not to speak to me under any circumstances? It is as if I had inflicted irreparable harm on your life, as if I had taken a loved one from you, or abused you in some way that would make reconciliation impossible. I feel like one of those outcasts, a criminal who, after serving a long sentence, tries to apologize to the family only to be met with withering contempt.

    What is the explanation? It scarcely matters; I already have it. Human beings are illogical creatures, driven by contradictions, hypocrisies, fears, and passions. It would be useless to look for sense in all this, and I believe that was what drove me mad some years ago. Yes, it was very sad and painful—it still is—but today I have learned to live with the restless shadows that come to torment me from time to time, as at this very moment while I write these lines.

    Ghosts of the past, demons, spirits—call them what you will—something haunts me and will not let me forget you. Is it madness? Weakness on my part? And if I am weak, does that make you strong? If so, you would be the queen of the purest cruelty and coldness. As I wrote in earlier texts, it would have been better never to have met you. Then, perhaps, I might still have a chance of meeting you. After the relationship ended, I became a complete pariah—useless, senseless—a creature brimming with emotion and too immature to accept what others accept so easily, even becoming friends with ex-girlfriends for life. I never managed that with anyone else, by my own choice. In your case, it was you who chose. And however much I try not to hate you, I cannot; the same force that once propelled the love I had for you now drives my hatred. 

    My fuel in life is refusing to accept your silence, and I have lied for years, trying to manipulate you, to persuade you by the crudest and most insincere means of this inescapable fact: I hate you, Karina! What kind of creature can be so cowardly and cold as to the point of morally erasing someone else for so many years and still go on walking, living, loving… what a mad world this is. If you think I am insane, I think you are too—only with a different strain of madness, that’s all. I am psychotic and you are neurotic—no offense intended. Yes, I hate you from the depths of my soul, and that, too, is love; how deranged all this must sound. Why have I not forgotten you? Why have I been unable to love anyone else? You do not care. To hell with everything that belongs to my world and my small, boyish feelings. You are the mistress of reason, the queen of ice castles, the cold wind and the heedless storm, the everlasting contempt—an illusion of all that once was.

I must have erred—yes, made many mistakes—but unforgivable ones? Is immaturity the only excuse you have for our not speaking? Are you afraid I will return to the subject and then tell me it hurts you? Hurts what? Do you even have a heart? I know Aquarius is said to be a cold sign, but this cold? I keep asking myself what I would do in your place, and mind you, I can be quite wretched and frigid when I choose. After—what?—fifteen years? You are a grown woman, and I am an old man with gray hair; what on earth created this barrier between you and me? Are you afraid I might harm you? Even from a distance? Your silence never convinced me; I was the foolish one. But age brings a few benefits, and one of them is knowing right from wrong. What you have done all these years is wrong. There is no rational justification, for we are speaking of emotions. You will surely find one justification—or many—for this situation, and each will serve to keep you inert, immovable, resolute, as if not speaking to me for the rest of this life were your eternal war for honor. For the honor of indulging your narcissistic impulses, perhaps; for your pride—for there is no moral, spiritual, legal, or personal explanation that accounts for it.

If it had been fifteen days, my childishness would be forgiven—and your silence as well. But fifteen years? Fifteen years! My God, that is the whole life of a young adolescent. What have we produced in all this time? Emptiness. Solitude. Doubt. Pride. Hatred. Contempt. These are our children, now grown and entering their rebellious phase. Soon enough they will turn eighteen—still angry, but a little more lucid. I wonder if, twenty years from now, some enlightened spirit will touch you so that you tell me the reason for this silence that has cut me inside like a sharp, poisoned razor all these days. I remember you with tenderness, as an illusion, as someone who died and will not return; that Karina is gone, and I will never see her again. So be it. I accept that—but I will not accept this mortifying silence for a second more.

     Go on as you wish, but I am certain that something in this wounds you. Something troubles you every day, and you will have to live with it if your decision is firm and indelible: either that you are incapable of forgiving, or that you cannot admit you are afraid you might come to like me again and, confused as well, are afraid of suffering as in the past. Yes, I am jealous; I think I am a little better now, but at the time I had no understanding of that feeling. Today I think I understand a thing or two about jealousy, and I promise nothing—only that I have learned something. I have learned that I ought not to love. Why take the risk? To live with the image of a ghost wandering through my mind and spirit, knowing I will never see her again? What sense is there in that? None; life has no logic, just as neither you nor I do. The things we study are full of logic, and that addicted me to searching for meaning in your actions. But I am tired of lies, tired of contempt, tired of going mad alone and suffering. I am human, for heaven’s sake. I have flesh and bone just like you, and one day I will die—just like you. What, exactly, will we take with us? Our pride, certainly, we will not. Enough. I have said more than I should. Sometimes I feel alone, and solitude, though a great friend, does not embrace me, does not kiss me, says nothing. So I speak to myself, because when I seek the opinion of a wiser person, I end up finding myself. You do not care, and before I fall into the sameness of those hideous sertanejo songs, your indifference is killing me de plus en plus. If that makes you happy, continue. The most absurd thing is to think that, for some sadistic reason beyond my understanding, you keep reading this blog—perhaps even shedding tears. But your decision is more “sublime”: why take risks with a madman, a forty-three-year-old smoker? No—better to keep to yourself; it will be better for you and for me. You are a woman of certainty—certain of everything you do. Keep it that way, and to hell with my small feelings.

C. H. Barbosa — an author weary of so many lies.

For Her Eyes Alone

 

To the care of the honour’d Lady K

I do pen this epistle to enquire whether thou art in good health. Yea, and more than this, to wish thee to be found in the keeping of the Lord Most High, who forsaketh neither the weary nor the broken in spirit. There is no might, nor puissance, in this world or without, that surpasseth the hand of God.

First and foremost, I give laud unto the Most High, that I am here present and granted the grace to inscribe this humble missive unto thee.

This is no letter of petitions, nor yet a scroll of longing, nor a cry of eternal repentance. Verily, my sole intent is to wish unto thee all that is goodly and best beneath the firmament. And mayest thou know, gentle lady, that all flesh is tempted, and days of ill-fortune do beset us — days wherein heaviness doth possess our souls, and we are sorely moved to renounce all.

Without falling into overlong digressions nor vain and idle reveries, I would confess that I was visited by a dream of thee in the night just past. In that vision, methought I gazed upon the looking-glass wherein thy likeness was cast, and beheld thee as thou wast in the springtide of thy youth.

It was not thy present self I did behold — no, not as thou art this day, a lady grown and seasoned — but as a maiden yet untempered by the burden of years. And yet, of a truth, even then the seeds were sown of the woman thou hast become: disciplined, steadfast, resolved, long-suffering, and full of quiet strength.

Nevertheless, there was that in thy tresses — long and flowing — and in the keenness of thine eyes, some fire, some glister of thine inner flame, which I dare not venture to render here in words, lest I be taken for sentimental or accused of seeking to reclaim what time hath rightfully borne away.

This dream didst rouse me at early light, and moved me to pen this plain and humble missive; for many a year had passed since last I dreamt of thee, and the vision left me full of disquiet. Upon waking, I didst kneel in prayer unto our Lord, beseeching Him with an earnest heart that He keep thee in His tender charge, for thou art worthy — aye, ever wert thou so.

The dream was cast in hues most vivid, a lively phantasm wherein thy younger semblance shone forth in cheerful mirth, discoursing sweetly with me. I felt the hum of thy speech, the soft enrapturement of nearness, yea, even the subtle fragrance that clung to thee. We spake, as once we did in those bygone days when naught could sever our kindred souls.

Think not this vision to be of base or lewd kind, filled with fleshly fire. Nay, it was replete with that which is most true, most honest, and most chaste betwixt two who once didst love with the fullness of their beings, yet were by life and lot riven asunder.

Now can I say, with no feigned tongue, that I have gleaned some small wisdom in the course of my years; I have come into the season of ripeness, and stand — by the grace of our Lord — upon the earth with both feet fixed and steadfast.

I dare not trespass upon that tender dominion of the heart which is no longer mine to enter. And yet, at last, I comprehend why thou didst will never to hear word nor whisper from me again. It is bitter truth that I am a creature perilous — cunning in charm and skilled in artful guile. Perchance the sole means thou didst find to master such a snare was by way of utter forsaking and resolute disdain.

These forces thou didst wield against me — silence and abandonment — did teach me lessons which neither sermon nor sorrow had ever wrought in me before. Yea, virtues I once knew not now do inhabit me, having been sown by thy hard but holy hand.

In all truthfulness, I would make unto thee a brief confession of my poor and wayworn affections: that after the lapse of many years, it is but now that I perceive — verily, I feel — that I love thee no longer.

Yet I still do wish thee all manner of goodness, that thy days be clad in joy and thy countenance resplendent, and that the Lord’s hand abide ever upon thee, for I do ken thou hast endured, and still endurest, a multitude of afflictions both of flesh and of soul.

What I would fain signify, and pray thee to comprehend, is that my love no longer beareth the stamp of that selfish mould it once wore — that fevered and tepid lust which sought, with vainglorious word, to win thee back. That is not the tenor of my purpose, nor do I seek such ends; of this I do solemnly assure thee.

This was the stirring that led me to rise early and commit this poor epistle to thy name: the dream that visited me, the wakened echoes of yore — those disquieted phantoms that return to haunt me with thy absence. But such hauntings hold no dominion now, for I have been drawn forth from the mire.

I was found by a servant of the Order of Melchizedek; I did partake of the cup and break bread, and therein was I made whole. And now, in spirit and in truth, I do both know and feel what true love is.

True love is a benevolence that seeketh not its own, that presseth not, nor cozeneth, nor harmeth the beloved. True love giveth place, yea, yieldeth all — even unto life itself — that the other might be preserved. In such estate stand I now.

Thou mayest, perchance, find thyself pondering why this epistle was cast in such archaic tongue. 'Tis for this cause: that it may reach thee and thee alone. I wot well there be prying eyes that linger yet upon these words, and likewise do I know such eyes to be indulgent and lewd of spirit; wherefore I trust they shall not squander their idle hours poring o’er lexicons to unearth the meaning hid herein.

I did say I would refrain from vain fancies; yet, the tide of feeling within me is so great, that I must needs render it — howbeit poorly — into thought. Lo, near fifteen years hath passed in wandering since our bond was sundered, and still, I find much cause to offer thee thanks. For thou, my lady, art a pattern of fortitude and grace; and this I speak not in flattery, nor with intent to beguile thee.

Some spirit or turn of fate didst bring thy memory to me again. Mayhap it was the treatise of Master Georg Lukács, entitled To Narrate or To Describe, wherein he draweth comparison betwixt a race of steeds in Zola's Nana, and another in Anna Karenina of Count Tolstoy. Or perchance it was my reading of Arabian Nights, that wondrous tome so filled with mirth and instruction — a text we should doubtless have shared, with many a jest and merry comment, had our friendship endured.

Aye, how I would rejoice to partake of such literary delight with thee once more. For of all the riches our fellowship did offer, this was the jewel most dear unto me.

Thou wast far more than my warm and sensual beloved. Thou wast a companion full of breath and spark, ever by my side; thou sharedst in my fervour for letters, didst bear with my unrest, and didst even suffer my youthful folly. Thou wast as the sister I never had — and after thee, I could love no other.

Yet methinks this part of the tale is already known to thee.

I could neither love nor be loved by any other — until this present hour. Lo, I now find my heart stirred anew, awakened by tender stirrings toward a maiden who walketh with me in our studies. Aye, my dear lady, I am not one to surrender lightly. Though life hath been a tempest of contradiction and trial, I did not forsake my path of learning, for therein alone do I find my calling.

In some strange way, I believe this steadfastness is but the echo of thy own resilience and discipline, taught unto me long ago, in a world now distant — when we did pace together through the colonnades and dwellings of our university days. Thou hast taught me much; but above all, this lesson endureth: that of constancy and fortitude. And for this, I do give thanks without ceasing, blessing thee with each breath beneath this sun.

As I spake afore, noble lady, I have conceived an affection for this maiden — young, fair, and wise in speech — and methinks she too may harbour some fondness toward me. Yet, as ever it is in my life, ease is not my portion. Love cometh not clad in comfort nor veiled in privilege. Nay, this fair one hath a betrothed.

And such as I am now — shaped by years and chastened by time — I cannot, I dare not, pursue her with artifice or sly attempt. I honour her bond, and thus I hold this love as a secret thing, a treasure buried deep, kept under key within my breast — the rarest trove that one might unearth.

Prudence, reverence, forbearance, and fidelity — these be not idle utterings upon my tongue. By the full grace of Our Lord, I have striven to embody such truths, not in word alone but in deed — humble deeds, too small for men to mark, yet alive and burning within the marrow of my soul, diffusing through the chambers of my heart.

I pray that thou art well. I pray thy body is nourished and thy sleep sweet; that the smile which once did ravish my gaze remaineth still upon thy visage. That thy laughter, which did once make others laugh, endureth still, despite the briars strewn across our daily path. May thy health be abundant, thy courage yet greater, thy spirit unwearied.

And know this: I do yet love thee. Not as that boy, green with want and blind in passion, but as a man who hath learned to love all men — and above all, to love the Lord. Yea, it is for this reason, for the fear of God and friendship of Christ Jesus, that I write thee now.

Be well, and may Our Lord bless thy every step, thy every breath.

Thine in eternal friendship,

Carlos Henrique Barbosa

La Instruanta Silento

 Dear K,

I do not know if these words will ever reach you, and perhaps that is for the best. Yet, here I am once more, compelled by some unseen force to write on this day, as I have every year since we parted ways. It has become a ritual, a habit that lingers despite the passing years, like the lingering scent of old books in a library—unchanged, unwavering. But unlike the past letters, this one is not a plea, nor a lament. It is, instead, a quiet confession and a final acknowledgment of what once was.

It is peculiar how the mind clings to memories, curating a museum of moments, some vivid, some blurred at the edges. I still remember you in your bright-colored All-Star sneakers, the jeans that bore the wear of time, and that Deep Purple shirt—a color between indigo and violet, a shade that perhaps only you could pull off with such casual grace. I see you as the girl who walked with effortless confidence, carrying books in your arms, speaking about words in ways I barely understood. Your passion for language, your devotion to Esperanto, the precision with which you wielded words, it all fascinated me. Se vi perdis la vojon, ne perdu la esperon; eĉ la ombroj servas al la lumo. I wonder if you still recall phrases like these, or if they have faded as I have faded from your life.

I was once both your friend and your lover, but above all, I was a fool. The jealousy, the possessiveness, the unrelenting need to anchor something that was meant to be free—these were my failings. I wounded you not with words, but with the weight of my insecurities, the chains of my own selfish love. And for that, K, I am sorry. No apology, however, can erase what was done. No amount of regret can restore what was lost.

I know you have long since turned away, that you no longer read my words, and in truth, that is a mercy. You should not have to carry the weight of my grief or my reminiscence. If I were to be honest, I ceased writing altogether, not only to you but to the world, for I have come to believe that I have no gift beyond causing harm. What talent I thought I had was nothing but an illusion, and in that illusion, I lost you.

Perhaps we have become strangers in all but memory. The boy you once knew and the woman you have become—two beings who no longer recognize each other, shaped by time and distance into something unrecognizable. And yet, despite the chasm between us, despite the silence, I find myself here, repeating these words like an echo from a distant past.

Every year, I have written. Every year, I have surrendered to the urge to speak to you in the only way left to me. But I suspect that I have said all of this before. It is a cycle, a ritual as predictable as the rising sun. And yet, I do not expect an answer, nor do I desire one. The only thing I wish for is your happiness—pure, untainted, and undisturbed by ghosts of the past.

Good memories remain untouched by regret, though they are accompanied by the immutable truth that we cannot rewind time, cannot undo the damage we inflicted. All we can do is carry them, cherish them, and move forward with the knowledge of what was.

If these words ever reach you, may they find you in joy, in health, in a life free from the burdens I once placed upon you. May you be surrounded by kindness, by love that does not bind but liberates.

You once told me that I would find the solution to my problems, and in the last moment we spoke, you gave me nothing but silence. It was the hardest lesson I have ever learned, and yet it was the most necessary. That silence was the greatest teacher I have ever known. Through it, I learned discipline, acceptance, and suffering. Through it, I found my path, and in that path, I found faith.

I still have your green sweater, the one that carries the scent of time and of a past life. And I still have the scarf you made for me, the one you carefully wove with imported wool. These are relics now, fragments of a history that no longer belongs to the present.

Wisdom is a path walked slowly, and under this sun, all suffering has been felt before by others. There is nothing new in pain, nor in regret. There is only the endurance to bear it, and the resilience to continue.

I still listen to those songs, the ones that colored the backdrop of our time together—These Eyes, Come Undone, Burn, Child in Time. And yes, even Nine in the Afternoon and Suddenly I See, though I imagine you have long since left them behind. Tonight, before I sleep, I will listen to Battery one last time, a song that once intertwined with our kisses in a moment of reckless eternity.

I have not loved another since you, but do not grieve for that. Love, in its truest form, is rare, and for me, it came only once. And that is enough. I no longer search, no longer expect.

I was never good for you, and I know this now as I did not know then. But now, above all else, I fear the Lord. In Him, I have found the understanding I lacked. He, the Almighty, has shown me that everything has a purpose under this sun, that all things have their time, and ours has long since passed. My greatest sin was loving you more than I loved Him, and for that, I have repented. We all have our own journey, our own story to tell, and mine will be one of faith and redemption.

So thank you, K. Thank you for existing, for being the brightest star in a part of my life that once felt endless. Thank you for what you taught me, not only when we were together, but more so in the silence that followed. In that silence, I found understanding, and in that understanding, I found my path.

Your silence must be honored, for it has been the greatest lesson of my life. And so, I write these words not to you, but to the wind, to the void, to the echoes of a time long past.

Be well, be happy, be at peace.

With nothing but respect and silent gratitude;

C. H. Barbosa

Hi

 I'm not sure if you are going to 32 or 33, but it doesn't matter at all: what it matters is that you are glad. Good. Healthy. Fine. Working on and hard. You are a fire my respectable friend. My despise and my reason of life. 

Well, congratulations, I wish you all the best and more because you deserve. You made me happy for the rest of my life and your memory gives me strength to keep on fighting.

Today is a special day for you and for me. I'm not sure if you are celebrating your birthday on the day 23, 24 or 25, not sure about South Korea. 

But I know that you were born in Brazil on January 24th. 

Every minute and year that passes I'm more confident that you won't talk to me by any means. You are probably not even reading this content for a long time. 

But those who hate me are eagerly reading it. It's a shame because they envy what I feel about you. They will never get out so complicated relationship: a past relation of love and a current relation of despise.

You might call me selfish, for I am, in fact a selfish one. But I think that the main reason to not talk to me all of those years is because you don't wanna take any chances. 

So it's better to eliminate the threat. Kill it in cold blood and bury it into the ground and bosom of our heart. Deep into our minds and souls. 

This is about me. A selfish person that cannot allow oneself to forget and alleviate this malady.

Wish you are good. I godamn really wish it. 

Hugs. See you in my dreams. 

Volver a los diecisiete (Mercedes Sosa)

 Volver a los diecisiete

Después de vivir un siglo

Es como descifrar signos

Sin ser sabio competente

Volver a ser de repente

Tan frágil como un segundo

Volver a sentir profundo

Como un niño frente a Dios

Eso es lo que siento yo

En este instante fecundo

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

Mi paso retrocedido

Cuando el de ustedes avanza

El arco de las alianzas

Ha penetrado en mi nido

Con todo su colorido

Se ha paseado por mis venas

Y hasta las duras cadenas

Con que nos ata el destino

Es como un diamante fino

Que alumbra mi alma serena

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

Lo que puede el sentimiento

No lo ha podido el saber

Ni el más claro proceder

Ni el más ancho pensamiento

Todo lo cambia el momento

Cual mago condescendiente

Nos aleja dulcemente

De rencores y violencias

Solo el amor con su ciencia

Nos vuelve tan inocentes

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

El amor es torbellino

De pureza original

Hasta el feroz animal

Susurra su dulce trino

Detiene a los peregrinos

Libera a los prisioneros

El amor con sus esmeros

Al viejo lo vuelve niño

Y al malo solo el cariño

Lo vuelve puro y sincero

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

De par en par en la ventana

Se abrió como por encanto

Entró el amor con su manto

Como una tibia mañana

Al son de su bella Diana

Hizo brotar el jazmín

Volando cual serafín

Al cielo le puso aretes

Y mis años en diecisiete

Los convirtió el querubín

Se va enredando, enredando

Como en el muro la hiedra

Y va brotando, brotando

Como el musguito en la piedra

Como el musguito en la piedra, ay sí sí sí

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=krEMw8E5ZAg

The parable of the Wolf

 Once upon a time, a wise old wolf was taking a nap in a sunny meadow when a chatty donkey approached him.

"Hey, Mr. Wolf," said the donkey, "did you know that the grass here is blue?"

The wolf, still a bit groggy from his nap, replied, "Blue grass? No way! It's green, my friend. I can prove it."

And so, the wolf embarked on a mission to convince the donkey that the grass was, indeed, green. He shared a multitude of theories and arguments, but the donkey remained stubborn in his belief that the grass was blue.

Frustrated by the donkey's unyielding stance, the wolf decided to escalate the matter and the donkey, in his turn, took it to the king of the forest, a majestic lion.

"Hey, your majesty," the donkey complained, "the wolf insists that the grass is green, but I know it's blue!"

The lion, resting with his eyes closed, replied nonchalantly, "Indeed, the grass is blue. Please fetch the wolf; I must have a word with him."

Delighted by the lion's support, the donkey rushed to the wolf to deliver the news. Annoyed but obedient, the wolf went to meet with the lion.

In their meeting, the lion sternly addressed the wolf, "I'm going to punish you for telling the donkey that the grass is green."

The wolf was indignant and ready to argue his case when the lion continued, "I'm punishing you not because you're wrong, but because you wasted your time trying to convince a donkey. Donkeys are donkeys, and sometimes it's best not to argue with them. In fact, trying to do so makes you just as stubborn as a donkey. Now, go before I change my mind and have you for lunch!"

Barbosa - The parable of the wolf

Marie Samuels - New Version

 Preface

The objective is to reflect on the concept of the Doppelgänger in Freud and its subsequent reactions of strangeness within oneself. Concurrently, we will follow the character Marion Crane and her duality (Doppelgänger), Marie Samuels, towards the realization, during the dinner with Norman Bates, that hasty behavior can manifest as "madness" – a reminder that we all might experience moments of going "crazy" or exhibiting psychotic tendencies.

The purpose of this work is purely educational and academic. It entails a thorough analysis of the film, accompanied by selected images from the 1960 movie "Psycho," directed by Alfred Hitchcock.

The copyright owner of the film is Paramount Pictures. From 1960 until 2017, the copyright was held by the studio. As we are in 2022, the film has entered the public domain in the United States of America. This explanatory note about copyright is included due to uncertainties regarding the film's copyright status in Brazil.

This present essay is dedicated in memoriam to Alfred Hitchcock and all those friends who are no longer with us.

Summary and "Psycho-Analysis"

In a Phoenix hotel room on a Friday afternoon, December 11, at 2:43 PM, Marion Crane and her out-of-town boyfriend, Sam Loomis, seem to have concluded an intimate relationship. She lies on the bed in her bra, while he stands shirtless, ironically asking if she has had lunch. Marion desires to marry Sam, yet her father's inherited debts and his child support payments, along with alimony, hinder him from providing the financial support she wishes for.

Marion encounters Sam Loomis during her work lunch break, affording little time to address their seemingly unconventional relationship. She yearns to marry him, transcending their sporadic encounters and gaining societal approval. When Sam jests at Marion, she gets out of bed to fasten her shirt in front of the mirror. The first semblance of the Doppelgänger emerges in this instance.

Doppelgänger

The initial notion of a dual self is observed in this foundational scene as she converses with her boyfriend while simultaneously observing her alter ego within the mirror. The concept of the Doppelgänger recurs throughout the narrative, with this moment being particularly poignant due to the mirror's orientation, directed away from the viewer and towards the character during her actions.

Although Marion Crane aspires to marry Sam Loomis, her decade-long role as a secretary hasn't amassed adequate savings. Conversely, Loomis inherited his father's debts and is obligated to pay alimony to his ex-wife. The couple's financial dilemma is deliberated before the mirror, wherein the dual aspects of Crane and Loomis coexist.

Modern society divides individuals within themselves, causing subjects to conflate with objects. The ensuing discomfort with the environment and life becomes insufferable. The predicament of two honorable individuals who've toiled and struggled yet lack the means to solidify their love is pondered.

Eventually, Crane realizes her tardiness for work, providing a foundation for our argument concerning the Doppelgänger present in her character.

Our protagonist, Miss Crane, returns to her role as a secretary in a real estate office. She arrives before her boss, Mr. George Lowery, and her client, Mr. Tom Cassidy, who purchases a Lowery house with $40,000 in cash. Lowery instructs Marion to deposit the money in the bank vault by Monday. Citing a headache, Marion requests the remainder of the day off after her trip to the bank.

This headache serves as the initial suggestion of the dual nature within Marion Crane. The audience is aware that her headache is feigned. In an abrupt shift, the dynamics at the real estate office transform.

Secret rendezvous between Marion and her boyfriend during lunch breaks, a recurring occurrence, do not culminate favorably. Sam Loomis lives far away, and their legal positions preclude them from uniting in marriage, a socially accepted institution. Notably, Miss Crane doesn't adorn any rings on her fingers.

The Doppelgänger's influence intensifies as Cassidy, an oil leaseholder, enters the narrative. He purchases a house with $40,000 cash, undeclared to the IRS, for his daughter's wedding. Cassidy's presence accelerates the Doppelgänger effect within our heroine.

Marion Crane's character arc is simple; a trustworthy, diligent, punctual secretary employed in Mr. Lowery's real estate office for a decade. Oil leaseholder Mr. Cassidy wields power, wealth, and verbosity. Cassidy employs endearing terms like "my sweet little girl," aimed at the secretaries to garner attention, exemplifying manipulative tactics.

Cassidy's dominance is evident when he mentions installing air conditioning in the secretaries' offices with newfound funds, prompting discomfort in Mr. George Lowery, who seems to benefit illicitly. Cassidy's focus on his 18-year-old daughter, devoid of unhappiness, catches Marion's attention.

The superior of the female employees is taken aback by Cassidy's evasion and invites him to a private conversation in an air-conditioned office. Cassidy, believing his status exonerates him, attempts to exploit the secretary without repercussions. Cassidy embodies the first introduced psychotic persona, fueled by his wealth and the notion that money can bend situations to his advantage.

Cassidy's harassment insinuates that Marion should compromise her integrity for solace. This moment amplifies the Doppelgänger effect within our heroine. Her internal duality emerges from Cassidy's attitudes and actions.

Marion's response to Cassidy's query on her happiness symbolizes her resistance against emotional invasion. 

Marion's transformation isn't abrupt; rather, it's built gradually. Factors contributing to her sudden awakening are delineated. Her initial pretext of a headache to secure an afternoon off shifts when Cassidy enters the scene. The emergence of the double-self, the Doppelgänger, is directly attributed to these events.

As we connect the dots leading to the creation of the character Marie Samuels from Los Angeles, California:

a) Marion Crane and her boyfriend share an unhappy and financially unstable relationship. Despite their desire to marry, their financial constraints lead to Marion's dissatisfaction with her current circumstances.

b) Mr. Tom Cassidy's intrusive behavior within the office during working hours further amplifies Marion's turmoil. The fact that Cassidy, who is old enough to be her father, implies that she should engage in prostitution to alleviate his own unhappiness only exacerbates her distress.

c) Tom Cassidy's appearance with undeclared cash amounting to $40,000 underscores his involvement in questionable financial dealings, hidden from the scrutiny of the IRS.

The shift towards estrangement becomes apparent when Marion Crane informs her boss, Mr. Lowery, that she intends to go home to rest after a stop at the bank due to an intense headache. Caroline, a colleague and secretary, offers her an Aspirin. Marion Crane dismisses the idea, asserting that her unhappiness cannot be placated with pills (indicating the influence of Mr. Cassidy's dual persona on her character).

This notion suggests that monetary means can alleviate unhappiness, echoing Mr. Cassidy's statement.

Marion begins displaying signs of a shifting character. Recognizing her lie to her boss regarding the headache and her true intent to travel to California to be with Samuel Loomis, her beloved, marks a pivotal point. Cassidy's manipulative behavior has significantly impacted her transformation. If an oil leaseholder can engage in financial misconduct, can't an employee adopt similar behavior?

The problem of criminal continuity, where one wrongdoing begets another, is explored. As Marion prepares for her journey, her demeanor transforms. A confident and self-assured individual starts to falter, indicated by her hesitance when confronted with the $40,000 on her bed. Her spontaneous packing for California reveals the gradual emergence of Marie Samuels, supplanting Marion Crane.

Marie Samuels represents the inversion of Marion Crane's former self. Once honest, trustworthy, and respected, Marie now embodies passion, impulsiveness, deception, and ultimately, psychosis.

The scene where Marie Samuels readies herself for the trip showcases her anxious breaths and searching gaze. Her internal turmoil is palpable as she comes to terms with the new persona inhabiting Marion Crane's identity. Several instances of the Doppelgänger effect are depicted as Marie dresses, including a childhood picture of herself and another depicting a man and a woman, presumably her parents. She turns away from the mirror, unable to confront this new self, and focuses on the envelope of money on the bed.

As Marie Samuels drives, the presence of another voice within her becomes evident. The Doppelgänger is now actively shaping her thoughts. She uses meta-thinking to anticipate societal perceptions of her theft and how she should evade consequences.

Sam Loomis's voice echoes in Marie Samuels's mind, questioning her actions and behavior in California. Her thoughts are increasingly dominated by this internal dialogue.

As Marie dreams of Loomis, her internal conflict is mirrored by external factors. The traffic light changes, revealing Mr. George Lowery crossing the street and spotting her. The fear is evident as he recognizes her and smiles, but also notes her lie about the headache. Marie's growing apprehension and the tension caused by her transformed identity are accentuated by the soundtrack.

Marie Samuels is marked by insecurity, fear, and an altered demeanor—traits that contrast sharply with Marion Crane's self-assuredness and lack of duplicity. Her physical actions, like supporting her head and biting her finger, mirror her internal turmoil.

Marie Samuels articulates the feeling of familiarity transforming into something strange, a sensation of unease.

The concept of the Doppelgänger is represented through mirrors and shadows in how the main character is depicted. Her clothing shifts from white, symbolizing innocence, to darker colors when she assumes the identity of Marie Samuels.

Marie Samuels's apprehensive behaviors, like biting her lip and looking back suspiciously, exemplify her paranoia, driven by the fear that her intentions have been exposed or that Mr. Lowery might possess supernatural insight into her actions.

The Doppelgänger is unsettling because it mirrors the self while simultaneously embodying a threatening otherness.

The shift in colors from soft to strong hues signifies a transformation in character. The transition from driving during the day to nighttime marks a significant shift in the journey.

Covering a distance of approximately 400 miles, the trip from Phoenix to California takes around 6 hours by car. Marie Samuels embarks on this journey in the afternoon, and as night falls, she decides to pull over and rest by the roadside due to the lack of nearby hotels. A police car stops behind her vehicle, and an officer approaches her window, waking her abruptly.

Marie awakens with a start, panic evident as she gazes at the police officer and hastily attempts to start her car. Her insecurity and uncertainty become palpable. She communicates her unease to the officer, revealing her suspicions and the feeling that something is amiss.

This sense of uncertainty persists when she chooses to exchange her car. Her swift decision-making astonishes California Charlie, the salesman, as she accepts the $700 fee for the car swap without hesitation. The transaction leaves the salesman speechless when she makes a cash payment and swiftly exits the car dealership, leaving behind a stunned policeman and mechanic.

In the scene where Marie Samuels counts the $700 bills in the bathroom, a sense of suspense deepens. The presence of the Doppelgänger is accentuated by the mirror facing her during this tense moment as she organizes the bills to pay for the car exchange.

The Doppelgänger effect intensifies as she continues her journey towards Sam Loomis. She begins to converse with herself, contemplating what questions the policeman or California Charlie might have asked. Her lip-biting and the stolen money in the bag on the passenger seat underscore her growing fear and paranoia.

The progression from fear to paranoia or psychosis is evident as Marie Samuels imagines conversations involving her colleague Caroline and her boss, Mr. Lowery. Her paranoia constructs numerous scenarios for escaping the predicament, considering options like running away and hiding.

During this internal deliberation, Marie envisions Tom Cassidy's potential reactions to the money theft. She imagines his anger and desire for retribution, leading her to sketch a smile on her face—an impulsive reaction that mirrors the impetus behind the Doppelgänger's emergence. This smile foreshadows another Doppelgänger instance, seen in Norman Bates at the film's conclusion. When the mother's Doppelgänger smiles, it mirrors the same ironic expression as Marie Samuels's other self.

It's crucial to note that Marie Samuels leaves California Charlie's car shop during the day, lost in her thoughts about others' perceptions of her. As she delves into her new persona, she smiles and ventures into the rainy night.

Navigating the storm becomes challenging due to heavy rainfall. In this challenging weather, she stumbles upon the Bates Motel, advertised as having vacancies available.

Norman Bates: The Doppelgänger of the Doppelgänger

In the context of analyzing Marie Samuels' journey of self-discovery, particularly her interactions with Norman Bates, the focus will be on her behavior and recognition.

Upon encountering Norman Bates, Marie Samuels realizes her own peculiarity as he himself is characterized by an eerie presence, dominated by a stronger personality—the character of his mother.

This association with Bates, who is similarly controlled by a motherly figure, underscores the concept of the double-double, where the oppressive situation triggers recognition. The hope is that this awareness prompts Marie Samuels to awaken to reality and relinquish her fantasies.

Marie Samuels waits for assistance with an umbrella and luggage, but no one arrives. She then notices an old and decaying house nearby, with a figure resembling a woman appearing in an upper window. The woman's gaze seems to fix oddly on Marie Samuels.

Subsequently, a young man exits the mansion and apologizes for not noticing her due to the rain. As they enter the hotel's office, the presence of the double-double becomes apparent. Images of Marie Samuels and Norman Bates are reflected together in a mirror near the office counter.

Norman Bates explains the hotel's situation, detailing that the recent highway route changes have led to fewer customers. He clarifies that guests usually arrive when they get lost and leave the main road.

Bates offers Marie Samuels a notebook to provide her details. While hesitating about her address, Marie Samuels chooses to write only "Los Angeles." This exchange transpires with the backdrop of the glass reflection, emphasizing her double nature.

Bates opens Cabin 1 for Marie Samuels, expressing that it's stuffy inside. Throughout this scene, the Doppelgänger is repeatedly present, reflecting and unfolding within each shot.

As Norman Bates describes the room options and hesitates with the word "bathroom," Marie Samuels completes his sentence. This interaction underscores his internal conflict.

Norman Bates proposes dinner, indicating he was about to have his own meal. The scene takes place with Marie Samuels standing near the looking glass while Bates stands in front of her, casting a shadow across her back.

Childish behavior emerges in Bates' eating habits as he offers her a sandwich and milk for dinner. Marie Samuels discreetly contemplates hiding the stolen money in her hotel room, wrapping it in a newspaper. Suddenly, she hears an older woman's voice exclaiming, "No! I said no!"

The voice belongs to Norman Bates' mother, who expresses her displeasure at his intention to dine with a woman. She asserts her possessiveness and jealousy, refusing to tolerate such encounters. She describes young men like Marie Samuels and her son as depraved.

As Marie Samuels attempts to apologize, the Doppelgänger is evident in Bates' reflection on the wall glass. Norman Bates explains his mother's altered state, and Marie Samuels politely acknowledges the situation. Bates invites her to dine in the office, but she hints at dining in her room. This moment symbolizes the duality within Bates.

Bates initially steps forward to accept the dinner invitation, then takes a step back. This action embodies the conflict between his desires and his controlling mother's influence.

Despite his initial desire to dine together, Bates ultimately suggests eating at the reception. Marie Samuels's polite acknowledgment contrasts with Bates's polite refusal.

Stuffed birds fill the reception area. Bates comments that she eats like a bird, a remark that takes on added meaning in this context. The conversation continues with Marie Samuels picking up a piece of bread, and Bates comments that she eats like a bird. He then stammers over the word "falsehood" and discusses his hobby of taxidermy. This hobby, he states, involves stuffing birds and other creatures, exploring the theme of passivity and submission to death.

Bates describes how birds are well stuffed because of their passive nature. He associates Marie Samuels with this characteristic, indirectly revealing his perception of her.

As their conversation evolves, Bates discusses his dedication to taxidermy, emphasizing that it is not just a hobby but a full-time endeavor. He explains that he manages the hotel, attends to rooms and errands, alluding to the control exerted by his mother. When asked if he goes out with friends, Bates replies that a boy's best friend is his mother.

Their exchange continues with the theme of traps. Marie Samuels mentions falling into one's own traps, to which Bates responds that he was born into his. He conveys a sense of resignation and disconnection from his mother's influence. In this case, Marie Samuels trap is her own self while Norman Bates trap is her mother. 

In this complex interaction, the Doppelgänger is pervasive, manifesting through reflections, shadows, and character dynamics. Marie Samuels's recognition and understanding of Bates's double nature contribute to her own journey of self-discovery.

Bates opens up about the source of his troubles, attributing them to his mother. He acknowledges that he no longer cares about being trapped by his circumstances and wishes he could challenge his sick mother. He recounts how she had to raise him alone after his father's death when he was five years old. Bates speculates on the difficulty she faced, not needing to work due to financial support from his father, possibly in the form of alimony or insurance.

He reveals that his mother met another man who persuaded her to build the Bates Hotel. The influence of this man was significant, and his passing hit her hard. Marie Samuels empathizes, recognizing the depth of her loss.

Bates admits that a son is a poor substitute for a lover and explains his commitment to taking care of his mother. He expresses resentment not toward his mother, but toward what she has become due to her deteriorating mental health.

Marie Samuels suggests institutionalizing his mother, which greatly offends Bates. He vehemently rejects the idea of placing his mother in a clinic or asylum. In this exchange, aggression is palpable in Bates's words, expression, and posture.

Continuing with the theme of birds and his mother's condition, Bates compares her to the stuffed birds. He claims his mother is as harmless as these inanimate objects, hinting that she might even be "dead" in some sense. The comparison underlines his conviction that she poses no threat.

He shifts his stance, suggesting that his mother isn't a maniac or a freak, but merely experiences moments of instability like everyone else. This interaction prompts Marie Samuels to recognize her own situation, leading to a pivotal realization or recognition of her own self.

Marie Samuels's recognition parallels that of Marion Crane. Marie Samuels serves as a decoy, a manifestation of her "crazy" side. Yet, she is not this person; she awakens to the potential risks posed by her criminal act.

Bates queries whether she has ever experienced moments of instability, to which Marie Samuels admits that she has. This admission underscores her acknowledgment of her own duality and provides a connection to Bates's experiences.

In this nuanced interaction, we tried to explore the themes of recognition, duality, and the interplay between characters. The Doppelgänger motif serves as a vehicle for conveying the complex inner struggles and transformations of the protagonists.

A Note about the concept of Doppelgänger.

The concept of the Doppelgänger, as understood through a Freudian lens, finds a compelling representation in Alfred Hitchcock's film "Psycho" (1960). The Doppelgänger, originating from German folklore, refers to a double or counterpart of a person that often symbolizes one's inner conflicts, desires, or psychological disintegration. In the context of "Psycho," the Doppelgänger concept aligns with Sigmund Freud's theories of the human psyche, particularly the id, ego, and superego, and the presence of repressed desires.

Marion Crane's journey in the film can be interpreted as a manifestation of her own Doppelgänger, a psychological double that emerges as she embarks on a path of transgression and theft. The Doppelgänger embodies her repressed desires for a better life and her frustration with societal norms. As she steals money and attempts to escape her responsibilities, she becomes divided between her conventional self (Marion Crane) and the Doppelgänger (Marie Samuels) representing her hidden aspirations.

The Bates Motel and its owner, Norman Bates, serve as another manifestation of the Doppelgänger concept. Norman's duality is evident through his relationship with his mother, who has a powerful hold on him. The Doppelgänger in this context embodies the Freudian idea of the divided self, with Norman's id and ego being in conflict due to his unresolved Oedipal complex and his mother's domination.

Norman's mother, who exists as both herself and a projection of his psyche, exemplifies the Doppelgänger as well. She represents his superego, enforcing societal norms and moral codes. Her presence fuels Norman's inner turmoil, leading to the emergence of his darker, psychotic side.

The meeting of Marion Crane and Norman Bates in the motel office brings these Doppelgängers into contact, illustrating the interplay of their psychological doubles. Their interaction becomes a confrontation of suppressed desires, repressed fears, and psychological fragmentation. The motel itself serves as a luminal space where identities blur and duality is emphasized, reinforcing the Doppelgänger motif.

Overall, "Psycho" encapsulates the Freudian concept of the Doppelgänger through its characters' internal conflicts, psychological divisions, and the collision of their hidden desires with societal norms. The film masterfully portrays the duality of human nature and the intricate layers of the human psyche, all within the framework of suspense and horror that Hitchcock is renowned for.

Freud in his own mind

The concept of the Doppelgänger, in the context of Freudian psychology and subsequent critical theory, pertains to the idea of a double or twin representing hidden aspects of an individual's psyche or personality. Sigmund Freud, the founder of psychoanalysis, introduced this concept to explain the complex interplay of conscious and unconscious forces within the human mind.

According to Freud, the Doppelgänger represents repressed desires, fears, or unresolved conflicts that are often relegated to the unconscious mind. It embodies the parts of ourselves that we suppress due to societal norms, moral codes, or personal discomfort. The Doppelgänger can take on various forms, including a physical double or a symbolic representation of the suppressed self.

In psychoanalytic terms, the Doppelgänger concept aligns with the id, ego, and superego structure of the psyche. The id represents our primitive and instinctual desires, while the ego acts as the mediator between the id and the external world, adhering to societal norms. The superego embodies our internalized moral values and standards. The Doppelgänger emerges as a manifestation of these internal conflicts, often personifying the tension between our hidden desires and societal constraints.

In subsequent critical theory, the Doppelgänger has been explored as a rich metaphor for various themes. It can symbolize the fractured self, the struggle between individual and society, the uncanny or unsettling nature of the familiar turned strange, and the psychological disintegration of characters. It is a narrative device that mirrors the human experience of duality and inner turmoil.

Literature, film, and art frequently employ the Doppelgänger motif to delve into characters' psychological depths, reveal hidden motivations, and explore the complexities of human behavior. It has become a versatile tool to examine the tension between appearances and reality, conscious and unconscious motives, and the dichotomy of self-hood.

In summary, the Doppelgänger, as understood through Freudian psychology and critical theory, symbolizes the internal conflicts and hidden aspects of an individual's psyche. It highlights the interplay between societal norms and suppressed desires, serving as a powerful metaphor in literature and art to explore themes of duality, psychological tension, and the uncanny.

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