The full bibliographic citation is of interest:

La nouvelle Justine, ou les malheurs de la vertu. Ouvrage orné d’un frontispiece et de quarante gravés avec soin. En Hollande [Paris], 1797. Four volumes, 18mo. These four volumes comprise the first part of the definitive edition of this work, of which the second part, in six volumes, bears the title: La nouvelle Justine, ou les malheurs de la vertu, suivie de l’histoire de Juliette, sa soeur [ou les prospérités du vice]. Ouvrage orné d’un frontispice et de cent sujet gravés avec soin. En Hollande [Paris].

Assuming the final six volumes of the 4,000 page epic carry Sade’s final thoughts as to title, etc., then we are justified in calling the separate novels, Justine, ou les malheurs de vertu and Juliette, ou les prospérités du vice. The most respectable English translation, that of Austryn Wainhouse and Richard Seaver (Grove Press, New York: 1965), still chooses, nevertheless, to call the first volume Justine, or Good Conduct Well-Chastised, which is, I’m afraid, an importation of Victorian smuttiness that simply has no bearing on this 18th century revolutionary document.

La nouvelle Justine sold more or less without hindrance for a year. Then searches and seizures began. On March 6, 1801, Sade and his publisher, Massé, were arrested. Sade vigorously denied being the author of either work (there was no author given in the original published version), but was again incarcerated, first in St.–Pélagie, and, two years later, in Charenton Asylum, where he remained until his death.

This story is mostly Hogg’s.

But first I have to tell you some about me.

That summer, by the blistered radiator behind the landing of the steps down to the basement, I used to suck off a sad looking thirteen-year-old spic named Pedro, who wore his dad’s baggy pants I don’t think he ever changed and a white short-sleeved shirt he put on Sunday mornings. Saturday nights it was gray. With shiny hair bumping the underside of the stairs and their drips of dirt, he would grind his sneakers on the rusty boards by the radiator’s metal feet and rub the heel of his hand on the hard place above his groin where his dad’s belt was tied. (The buckle tongue had broken.) His knuckles were red from gnawing. “You want it?” He’d glance around, scared. “Come on, take it now. Go on, take it.” His zipper was always half open.

Squatting, I’d nose between the brass teeth to smell his sweat. He would push penis, both testicles, and the two little fingers of his left hand into my mouth. Holding his thin hips, I troweled my tongue inside his foreskin till, leaning and grunting, he would spurt his greasy juice and, quickly limp, a tablespoon of urine.

Once he told me, when I stood up, “You look funny down there. You really look funny.”

Though I was eleven, I was half a head taller than him. People who didn’t talk to us always thought I was the older.

There were two mattresses in the cellar already.