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The Marquis de Sade, Charenton, Val-de-Marne, Paris, France. 106,917 likes 77 talking about this. My manner of thinking, so you say, cannot be. Marquis De Sade's Justine. SiNEMiA: -/10 IMDB: 5.3/10. Find the showtimes for Marquis de Sade's Justine quickly and easily! Why was it so hard to find in the first place?

March 27, 1988, Page 007001 The New York Times Archives My wife is neither prudish nor anti-intellectual. Nevertheless, upon reading one of the works of the Marquis de Sade, she reacted in a way that has come to be regarded as typical of the complacent bourgeois mentality: without saying a word, and having gone through about one-third of the book, she flung the slim volume into the trash can and went straight to the bookshelves to look for a substitute - the apposite word might be antidote - for her interrupted reading. Noticing that the cause of her displeasure was a novel by the infamous Marquis, I timidly represented my surprise at the vehemence of her reaction. After all, Sade and his work have remained a constant and worldwide preoccupation among intellectuals for about two centuries. Theologians have been enraged and psychiatrists have been intrigued; and even political scientists have been tickled, for some have culled examples of the class struggle from the vivid descriptions of victimization that are owed to the poisonous pen of the Marquis. I could not avoid admiring a novelist who so incensed his readers. For writing is, like all communication, dialogue.

It is saying something to someone, so that a writing is successful to the degree that it extends a bridge between two human hearts; there is no canon that prescribes an obligatory pleasing nature to its message. Given the choice, a writer, if sincere, would rather see his book thrown into the trash can with irate conviction than politely relegated, with gentle oblivion, to the shelves of infinite boredom. 'Justine' was the sample of our author that the trash can had welcomed with a ringing metallic sound. Its theme, 'the misfortunes of virtue,' is well known. Its plot is really of little relevance: a sweet young girl, virtuous and innocent, is made the butt of every conceivable infamy and abuse in a series of episodes painted with brilliance and imagination.

For instance, dismissed at 14 years of age from the convent in which she had been educated, she must defend her virtue from the assaults of debauchees who offer financial ease in exchange for sexual favors. She stoutly defends her moral principles and sees herself lowered to the position of servant in the household of an avaricious man, who tries to induce her to steal from a neighbor. She refuses, and in reprisal she is accused falsely of theft and imprisoned.

By becoming an accomplice in an arson that kills several prisoners, she succeeds in escaping, only to be raped. She takes refuge in the castle of the young Count of Bressac, a homosexual who turns out to be another monster: cruel, perverse and unfilial. Because she refuses to help him in the poisoning of his mother, she is nearly devoured by the Count's ferocious mastiffs loosed against her. Picked up by another libertine, she is branded with a hot iron and expelled. What are we to make of this succession of tortures, whippings, flayings, incisions, burns, poisonings, vivisections, beatings and humiliations? The least sophisticated reader promptly realizes that this literature cannot be read like any other. For one thing, the plot is wholly irrelevant.