Ecce Homo Complete Works, Volume Seventeen · Friedrich Wilhelm Nietzsche
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There is no reality, no "ideality," which has not been touched in this book (touched! what a cautious euphemism!). Not only the eternal idols, but also the youngest--that is to say, the most senile: modern ideas, for instance. A strong wind blows between the trees and in all directions fall the fruit--the truths. There is the waste of an all-too-rich autumn in this book: you trip over truths. You even crush some to death, there are too many of them. Those things that you can grasp, however, are quite unquestionable; they are irrevocable decrees. I alone have the criterion of "truths" in my possession. I alone _can_ decide. It would seem as if a second consciousness had grown up in me, as if the "life-will" in me had thrown a light upon the downward path along which it has been running throughout the ages. The _downward path_--hitherto this had been called the road to "Truth." All obscure impulse--"darkness and dismay"--is at an end, the "_good man_" was precisely he who was least aware of the proper way.[1] And, speaking in all earnestness, no one before me knew the proper way, the way upwards: only after my time could men once more find hope, life-tasks, and roads mapped out that lead to culture--_I am the joyful harbinger of this culture._ ... On this account alone I am also a fatality.
Text from Project Gutenberg, public domain in the United States.