Frank Oppenheimer: “I think he [J. Robert Oppenheimer] and I were lying down right next to each other flat on the desert right outside the control [room] at the time the bomb went off.”

Robert Wilson: “When it went off … we saw what was just a tremendously overpowering vision of this thing happening. Seeing the mountain small beside it. Seeing… some kind of beauty, but awesome … as it slowly developed, went up in the air, and made the whole desert light up as if at noon. A large desert rimmed by mountains appeared to be a small place. And that was something that, once that had happened, I was a different person from then on.”

Frank Oppenheimer: “At the time it went off I think absolutely — I knew sort of what would happen but I didn't expect the heat from the flash at five miles away to be nearly that intense. And then there was a cloud, the radioactive cloud sort of hovered there.

[…]

So there was this sense of this ominous cloud hanging over us. It was so brilliant purple, with all the radioactivity glowing. And it just seemed to hang there forever.

Of course it didn't. It must have been just a very short time until it went up.

It was very terrifying.

And the thunder from the blast bounced on the rocks and then went — I don't know where it bounced, but it never seemed to stop, not like an ordinary echo with thunder. It just kept echoing back and forth and then — it was a very scary time when it went off.

I wish I could remember what my brother said, but I can't. But I think we just said, 'It worked.' I think that's what we said, both of us.

And nobody knew it was going to work.”

At words poetic, I'm so pathetic
That I always have found it best,
Instead of getting 'em off my chest,
To let 'em rest unexpressed,
I hate parading my serenading
As I'll probably miss a bar,
But if this ditty is not so pretty
At least it'll tell you
How great you are.

You're the top!
You're the Coliseum.
You're the top!
You're the Louvre Museum.
You're a melody from a symphony by Strauss
You're a Bendel bonnet,
A Shakespeare's sonnet,
You're Mickey Mouse.
You're the Nile,
You're the Tower of Pisa,
You're the smile on the Mona Lisa
I'm a worthless check, a total wreck, a flop,
But if, baby, I'm the bottom you're the top!

Your words poetic are not pathetic.
On the other hand, babe, you shine,
And I can feel after every line
A thrill divine
Down my spine.
Now gifted humans like Vincent Youmans
Might think that your song is bad,
But I got a notion
I'll second the motion
And this is what I'm going to add;

You're the top!
You're Mahatma Gandhi.
You're the top!
You're Napoleon Brandy.
You're the purple light
Of a summer night in Spain,
You're the National Gallery
You're Garbo's salary,
You're cellophane.
You're sublime,
You're turkey dinner,
You're the time, the time of a Derby winner
I'm a toy balloon that’s fated soon to pop
But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're an arrow collar
You're the top!
You're a Coolidge dollar,
You're the nimble tread
Of the feet of Fred Astaire,
You're an O'Neill drama,

You're Whistler's mama!

You're camembert.

You're a rose,
You're Inferno's Dante,

You're the nose
On the great Durante.
I'm just in a way,
As the French would say, “de trop”.
But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're a dance in Bali.
You're the top!
You're a hot tamale.
You're an angel, you,
Simply too, too, too divine,
You're a Boticcelli,

You're Keats,

You're Shelly!
You're Ovaltine!
You're a boom,
You're the dam at Boulder,
You're the moon,
Over Mae West's shoulder,
I'm the nominee of the G.O.P.

Or GOP!

But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

You're the top!
You're a Waldorf salad.
You're the top!
You're a Berlin ballad.
You're the boats that glide
On the sleepy Zuider Zee,
You're an old Dutch master,

You're Lady Astor,
You're broccoli!
You're romance,
You're the steppes of Russia,
You're the pants, on a Roxy usher,
I'm a broken doll, a fol-de-rol, a blop,

But if, baby, I'm the bottom,
You're the top!

LRC [LewRockwell.com] is a damned ugly sight and they do indeed preach to the choir—but I find it similar to enjoying a hideously fat woman belt out some of my favorite operas.