I worked with Jack Nitzsche for 'One Flew Over the Cuckoo's

When the wise director Milos Forman spoke of his work on One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, he revealed not merely an anecdote, but a parable for the ages. He described how the composer Jack Nitzsche, having dismissed a grand symphony orchestra, chose instead a humble musician who made sound from water poured into glasses of differing size, creating a glass harmonica. To this fragile music were added the voices of Indian flutes and the pulse of drums. Thus the score of one of cinema’s greatest triumphs was born, not from majesty, but from simplicity. This tale is not just about film, but about the eternal struggle between grandeur and humility, between expectation and the mysterious ways of the spirit.

Behold the meaning: when men expect thunder, sometimes it is the whisper of water that moves the soul more deeply. The orchestra, in its magnificence, could have filled the air with power, but Forman and Nitzsche sought something more elusive—truth. The clinking of glasses, trembling with liquid, spoke of fragility, of humanity’s trembling heart in the face of tyranny. So the music did not dominate the story but became its silent ally, echoing the madness, the tenderness, and the rebellion within the walls of the asylum. This is the wisdom: greatness does not always arise from numbers or might, but often from the quiet and the overlooked.

History itself bears witness to this eternal law. Recall the tale of David and Goliath. The Philistine giant, clad in iron, struck fear in armies, while David carried but a sling and five smooth stones. Yet it was the small and the unexpected that brought down the towering force. Just as David’s stone pierced the forehead of Goliath, so too did the fragile tones of the glass harmonica pierce the hearts of all who heard. Power and scale may overwhelm, but they do not always touch the soul. The tender, the strange, the subtle—these can be mightier still.

We may also recall Mahatma Gandhi, who stood against the British Empire not with weapons, but with fasting, prayer, and nonviolent resistance. His strength lay not in the orchestration of armies, but in the trembling yet unbreakable will of the spirit. Just as the glass harmonica rose above the silence of the great orchestra, Gandhi’s stillness spoke louder than a thousand cannons. Here too is the pattern: where men expect power, the gods reveal meaning in frailty.

The lesson for us is clear. In our own labors, we are tempted to believe that only with vast resources, with wealth and grand tools, can beauty be made. Yet this is a false teaching. The ancients, and the artists of every age, whisper to us that the most profound works often come from the humblest of instruments. The poet with one scrap of paper, the child with a stick drawing in the dirt, the woman with a single voice lifting in song—these have changed worlds. Let no one despise the small beginnings, for the divine often hides within them.

What, then, should we do? First, we must learn to see beyond appearances. When life presents us with glass and water, do not mourn the absence of an orchestra. Instead, ask: how can I make beauty from what is in my hands? Second, cultivate the ear that listens for truth, not volume. Let your decisions be guided not by what is most grand, but by what most deeply resonates with the heart. Third, in your work, your art, and your speech, seek not only to impress but to touch the soul.

In this way, the tale of Forman and Nitzsche becomes more than a story of cinema—it is a guide for living. When faced with overwhelming odds, remember David’s stone. When pressured to match the world’s noise, remember the glass harmonica. When tempted to seize power by force, remember Gandhi’s silence. The way of truth is rarely the way of spectacle. The humble path, if chosen with courage, may resound across generations.

Therefore, let us walk forward with wisdom. Let us honor simplicity, seek authenticity, and trust that the smallest of sounds can echo through eternity. And when others boast of their orchestras, may we not be ashamed to bring forth our trembling glass of water—for within it lies the music of the soul.