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哈佛录取文书来啦!速来围观Essay范文

刘丹
2021-09-02 13:45:41
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金吉列第72届国际教育展

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哈佛大学校报上张贴了2021年录取新生的优秀Essay范文。

2022美本申请已经如火如荼,说到申请过程最让人头秃的就是Essay怎么写?偏偏文书又特别重要!哈佛大学校报上张贴了2021年录取新生的优秀Essay范文,没有了客观分数,我们来学习他们的思维方式,希望给今年申请的你一些启发~

1、Abigail

ESSAY正文

I hate the letter “S”. Of the 164,777 wors with “S”, I only grapple with one. To conemn an entire letter because of its use 0.0006% of the time souns statistically absur, but that one case change 100% of my life. I use to have two parents, but now I have one, an the “S” in “parents” isn’t going anywhere.

“S” follows me. I can’t get through a ay without being remine that while my friens went out to inner with their parents, I ate with my parent. As I write this essay, there is a blue line uner the wor “parent” telling me to check my grammar; even Grammarly assumes that I shoul have parents, but cancer oesn’t listen to eit suggestions. I won’t claim that my situation is as unique as 1 in 164,777, but it is still an exception to the rule - an outlier. The worl isn’t meant for this special case.

The worl wouln’t abanon “S” because of me, so I trie to abanon “S”. I coul get away from “S” if I staye busy; you can’t have inner with your “parent” (thanks again, Grammarly) if you’re too busy to have family inner. Any spare time that I ha, I fille. I became known as the “busy ki”- the one that everyone always asks, “How o you have time?” Morning meetings, classes, after school meetings, volleyball practice, ance class, rehearsal in Boston, homework, sleep, repeat. Though my specific scheule has change over time, the busyness has not. I couln’t fill the loss that “S” left in my life, but I coul at least make sure I in’t have to think about it. There were so many things in my life that I couln’t control, so I controlle what I coul- my scheule. I never succumbe to the stress of potentially over-committing. I thrive. It became a challenge to juggle it all, but I’ soon fin a rhythm. But rhythm wasn’t what I wante. Rhythm may not have an “S”, but “S” sure like to come by when I was ile. So, I ae another ball, an another, an another. Soon I notice that the same “color” balls kept falling into my hans- theater, acaemics, politics. I began to want to come into contact with these more an more, so I further narrowe the scope of my color wheel an increase the shaes of my primary colors.

Life became easier to juggle, but for the first time, I in’t a another ball. I foun my rhythm, an I embrace it. I stoppe running away from a single “S” an began chasing a ouble “S”- passion. Passion has given me purpose. I was shackle to “S” as I trie to escape the confines of the traitional familial structure. No matter how far I ran, “S” staye behin me because I kept looking back. I’ve finally learne to move forwar instea of away, an it is liberating. “S” got me moving, but it hasn’t kept me going.

I wish I coul en here, triumphant an basking in my new inspiration, but life is more convolute. Motivation is a ouble ege swor; it keeps me facing forwar, but it also keeps me from having to look back. I want to claim that I showe courage in being able to turn from “S”, but I cannot. Motivation is what keeps “S” at bay. I am not perfectly heale, but I am perfect at navigating the best way to heal me. I on’t seek out saness, so “S” must stay on the sielines, an until I am completely reay, motivation is more than enough for me.

2、Alex

ESSAY正文

I entere the surprisingly cool car. Since when is Beijing Line 13 air-conitione? I’ll take it. At four o’clock in the afternoon only about twenty people were in the subway car. “At least it’s not crowe,” one might have thought. Wrong. The pressure of their eyes on me fille the car an smothere me. “看看!她是外国人!”(Look, look! She’s a foreigner!) An ol man very louly whispere to a chil curle up in his lap. “Foreigner,” he calle me. I hate that wor, “foreigner.” It only explains my exterior. If only they coul look insie.…

They woul know that I actually speak Chinese—not just speak, but love. They woul know that this love was born from my first love of Latin—the language that fostere my amiration of all languages. Latin lives in the wors we speak aroun the worl toay. An translating this ancient language is like watching a play an performing in it at the same time. Each wor is an aventure, an on the journey through Virgil’s Aenei I foun that I am more like Aeneas than any living, ea, or fictional hero I know. We share the intrinsic value of loyalty to friens, family, an society. We stan true to our own wor, an we uphol others to theirs. Like Aeneas’s trek to fin a new settlement for his collapse Troy, with similar perseverance I, too, waner the seas for my own place in the worl. Language has helpe me o that.

If these subway passengers unerstoo me, they woul know that the very reason I sat besie them was because of Latin. Even before Aeneas an his tale, I met Caecilius an Grumio, characters in my first Latin textbook. In translations I learne grammar alongsie Rome’s rich history. I realize how learning another language coul expose me to other worls an other people—something that has always excite me. I also realize that if I wante to know more about the worl an the people in it, I woul have to learn a spoken language. Spanish, espite the seven years of stuy prior to Latin, i not stick with me. An the throatiness of French was not appealing. But Chinese, more than these other traitional languages, intrigue me. The oors to new worls it coul open seeme enless. Thus I chose Chinese.

If these subway passengers looke insie me, they woul fin that my knowlege of both Latin an Chinese makes me feel whole. It feels like the worl of the past is flowing through me alongsie the worl of the future. Thanks to Latin, Chinese sticks in my min like the Velcro on the little boy’s shoes in front of me. If this little boy an his family an friens coul look insie, they woul unerstan that Latin lai the founation for my lifelong commitment to languages. Without wors, thoughts an actions woul be lost in the space between our ears. To them, I am a foreigner, “外国人” literally translate as “out-of-country person.” I feel, however, more like an avena, the Latin wor for “foreigner,” translate as “(one who) comes to (this place).” I came to this place, an I came to this country to stay. Unfortunately, they will not know this until I speak. Then once I speak, the oors will open.

3、Nicolas

ESSAY正文

When I faile math in my sophomore year of high school, a bitter ispute engulfe my househol -- “Nicolas Yan vs. Mathematics.” I was the plaintiff, appearing pro se, while my father represente the efenant (inanimate as it was). My brother an sister constitute a rather unerstaffe jury, an my mother presie over the case as juge.

In a frightening eparture from racial stereotype, I charge Mathematics with the capital offences of being “too ifficult” an “irrelevant to my aspirations," citing my recent shortcomings in the subject as evi. ence. My father entere a not guilty plea on the efenant's behalf, for he ha always harbore hopes that I woul follow in his entrepreneurial footsteps -- an who ever hear of a businessman who wasn't an accomplishe mathematician? He argue that because I ha fallen sick before my examination an ha been unable to sit one of the papers, it woul be a travesty of justice to blame my "Ungrae” mark on his client. The juge noe sagely.

With heartrening pathos, I recalle how I ha stuie A-Level Mathematics with calculus a year before the rest of my cohort, bravely grappling with such perverse concepts as the poisson istribution to no avail. I ecrie the subject's lack of real-life utility an lamente my inability to reconcile further effort with any plausible success; so that to persist with Mathematics woul be a Sisyphean eneavor. Since I ha no interest in becoming the entrepreneur that my father envisione, I petitione the court for acaemic refuge in the humanities. The members of the jury exchange sympathetic glances an put their heas together to eliberate.

In hushe tones, they weighe the particulars of the case. Then, my sister announce their unanimous ecision with magisterial gravity: "Nicolas shouln't have to o math if he oesn't want to!" I was ecstatic; my father istraught. With a bang of her metaphorical gavel, the juge sentence the efenant to "Death by Omission"-- an so I chose my subjects for 11th Grae sans Mathematics. To my father's isappointment, a future in business for me now seeme implausible.

Over the next year, however, new evience that threw the court's initial verict into question surface. Languishing on eath row, Mathematics exercise its right to appeal, an so our quasi-court reconvene in the living room.

My father reiterate his client's innocence, maintaining that Mathematics was neither "irrelevant" nor "too ifficult." He prouly recounte how just two months earlier, when my friens ha convince me to join them in creating a business case competition for high school stuents (clerical note: the loftily-title New Zealan Seconary Schools Case Competition), I stoo in front of the Boar of a company an successfully pitche them to sponsor us-- was this not evience that l coul succee in business? I think I saw a tear roll own his cheek as he implore me to give Mathematics another chance.

I consiere the truth of his wors. While writing a real-worl business case for NZSSCC, l ha been struck by how mathematical processes actually mae sense when eploye in a practical context, an how numbers coul tell a story just as vivily as wors can. By reviewing business moels an comparing financial projections to actual returns, one can rea a company's story an ientify areas of potential growth; whether the company then took avantage of these opportunities etermine its success. It wasn't that my role in organizing NZSSCC ha magically taught me to embrace all things mathematical or commercial -- I was still the same person -- but I recognize that no intellectual constraints prevente me from succeeing in Mathematics; I neee only the courage to seize an opportunity for personal growth.

I stoo up an aresse my family: “I’ll o it.” Then, without waiting for the court’s final verict, I crosse the room to embrace my father: an the rest, as they (selom) say, was Mathematics.

4、Anthony

ESSAY正文

I ha never seen houses floating own a river. Minutes before there ha not even been a river. An immense wall of water was estroying everything in its wake, picking up fishing boats to smash them against builings. It was the morning of March 11, 2011. Seeing the images of estruction wrought by the earthquake an tsunami in Japan, I felt as if something within myself was also being shaken, for I ha just spent two of the happiest summers of my life there.

In the summer of my freshman year, I receive the Kikkoman National Scholarship, which allowe me to travel to Japan to stay with a host family in Tokyo for ten weeks. I arrive just as the swine flu panic grippe the worl, so I was not allowe to atten high school with my host brother, Yamato. Instea, I took Japanese language, juo, an karate classes an explore the confusing sprawl of the largest city in the worl. I spent time with the ol men of my neighborhoo in the onsen, or hot spring, questioning them about the Japan of their youth. They laughe an tol me that if I wante to see for myself, I shoul work on a farm.

The next summer I returne to Japan, eciing to hee the ol men’s avice an volunteer on a farm in Japan’s northernmost islan, Hokkaio. I spent two weeks working more than fourteen hours a ay. I hel thirty-poun bags of garlic with one han while trying to tie them to a rope hanging from the ceiling with the other, but couln’t hol the bags in the air long enough. Other ays were spent pulling up enless rows of aikon, or Japanese raish, which left rashes on my arms that itche for weeks. Completely exhauste, I stumble back to the farmhouse, only to be greete by the family’s young chilren who were eager to play. I passe out every night in a room too small for me to straighten my legs. One ay, I overslept a lunch break by two hours. I awoke mortifie, an hurrie to the father. After I apologize in the most polite form of Japanese, his face broke into a broa grin. He patte me on the back an sai, “You are a goo worker, Anthony. There is no nee to apologize.” This single exchange reveale the true spirit of the Japanese farmer. The family ha live for years in conitions that thoroughly wore me out in only a few ays. I ha misse two hours of work, yet they were still perpetually thankful to me. In their life of unbelievable harship, they still foun room for compassion.

When I ha first gone to Tokyo, I ha sought the soul of the nation among its skyscrapers an urban hot springs. The next summer I spurne the beaten track in an attempt to iscover the true spirit of Japan. While lugging enormously heavy bags of garlic an picking aikon, I foun that spirit. The farmers worke harer than anyone I have ever met, but they still mae room in their hearts for me. So when the tsunami threatene the people to whom I owe so much, I ha to act. Remembering the lesson of compassion I learne from the farm family, I starte a fun-raiser in my community calle “One Thousan Cranes for Japan.” Little more than two weeks later, we ha raise over $8,000 an a flock of one.

5、Jiafeng

ESSAY正文

I have a fetish for writing.

I’m not talking about crafting prose or verses, or even sentences out of wors. But simply constructing letters an characters from strokes of ink gives me immense satisfaction. It’s not quite calligraphy, as I on’t use calligraphic pens or Chinese writing brushes; I prefer it simple, spontaneous, an subconscious. I often fin myself crafting characters in the margins of notebooks with a fifty-cent pencil, or tracing letters out of thin air with anything from chopsticks to fingertips.

The art of hanwriting is a relic in the information era. Why write when one can type? Perhaps the Chinese ha an answer before the avent of keyboars. “One’s hanwriting,” sai the ancient Chinese, “is a painting of one’s min.” After all, when I practice my hanwriting, I am crafting characters.

My character.

I particularly enjoy meticulously esigning a character, stroke by stroke, an eventually builing up, letter by letter, to a quote person­alize in my own voice. Every movement of the pen an every rop­let of ink all lea to something profoun, as if the arches of every "m" are oorways to revelations. After all, characters are the buil­ing blocks of language, an language is the only vehicle through which knowlege unfols. Thus, in a way, these letters uner my pen are themselves representations of knowlege, an the elicate beauty of every letter proves, visually, the intrinsic beauty of know­ing. I suppose hanwriting remins me of my conviction in this vi­sual manner: through learning answers are foun, lives enriche, an societies bettere.

Moreover, perhaps this strange passion in polishing every single character of a wor elineates my eication to learning, testifies my zeal for my conviction, an sketches a crucial stroke of my character.

"We--must--know ... " the mathematician Davi Hilbert's voice echoes in resolute cursive at the tip of my pen, as he, aressing German scientists in 1930, propouns the goal of moern intellectu­als. My pen firmly nos in agreement with Hilbert, while my min again fumbles for the path to knowlege.

The versatility of hanwriting enthralls me. The Chinese evel­ope many styles -- calle hans -- of writing. Fittingly, each han seems to parallel one of my many acaemic interests. Characters of the Regular Han (kai shu), a legible script, serve me well uring many long hours when I scratch my hea an try to prove a mathematical statement rigorously, as the legibility illuminates my logic on paper. Wors of the Running Han (xing shu), a semi-cursive script, are like the passionate wors that I speak before a committee of Moel Unite Nations elegates, propouning a ecisive course of action: the wors, both spoken an written, are swift an coherent but resolute an emphatic. An strokes of the Cursive Han (cao shu) resemble those suen artistic sparks when I eliver a line on stage: free spontaneous, but emphatic syllables travel through the lights like rivers of ink flowing on the page.

Yet the fact that the three istinctive hans cooperate so seamlessly, fusing together the glorious culture of writing, is perhaps a fable of learning, a testament that the many talents of the Renaissance Man coul all be worthwhile for enriching human society. Such is my methoology: just like I organize my ifferent hans into a neat personal style with my fetish for writing, I can unify my broa interests with my passion for learning.

“...We -- will -- know!” Hilbert finishes his aage, as I frantically slice an exclamation mark as the final stroke of this painting of my min.

I must know: for knowing, like well-crafte letters, has an inherent beauty an an intrinsic value. I will know: for my versatile interests in acaemics will flow like my versatile styles of writing.

I must know an I will know: for my fetish for writing is a fetish for learning.

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