2015-08-16 10:13 三立在线
摘要：哈佛大学入学SAT Essay范文整理！下文中为大家整理了哈佛大学入学SAT Essay范文的内容，希望对计划报考哈佛大学的考生们有所帮助。
A Formation of Self
Before even touching the camera, I made a list of some of the photographs I would take: web covered with water, grimace reflected in the calculator screen, hand holding a tiny round mirror where just my eye is visible, cat’s striped underbelly as he jumps toward the lens, manhole covers, hand holding a translucent section of orange, pinkies partaking of a pinkie swear, midsection with jeans, hair held out sideways at arm’s length, bottom of foot, soap on face. This, I think is akin to a formation of self. Perhaps I have had the revelations even if the photos are never taken.
I already know the dual strains the biographers will talk about, strains twisting through a life. The combination is embodied here: I write joyfully, in the margin of my lab book, beside a diagram of a beaker, “Isolated it today, Beautiful wispy strands, spider webs suspended below the surface, delicate tendrils, cloudy white, lyrical, elegant DNA! This is DNA! So beautiful!”
I should have been a Renaissance man. It kills me to choose a field (to choose between the sciences and the humanities!). My mind roams, I wide-eyed, into infinite caverns and loops. I should fly! Let me devour the air, dissolve everything into my bloodstream, learn!
The elements are boundless, but, if asked to isolate them, I can see tangles around medicine and writing. The trick will be to integrate them into a whole, and then maybe I can take the photograph. Aahh, is it already there, no? Can’t you see it? I invoke the Daedalus in me, everything that has gone into making me, hoping it will be my liberation⋯⋯
By Daniel G. Habib
My childhood passions oscillated between two poles: St. Catherine’s Park and the 67th Street branch of the New York Public Library. Located across Sixty-Seventh Street from one another, the two crystallized the occupations of my youth. On a typical day, I moved between a close-knit group of friends at the park to largely solitary stays at the library. My recreational pursuits were communal; my intellectual pursuits were individual. The gulf was pronounced: friends rarely joined my mother and me as we meandered among the stacks, and the books I obtained from the library never accompanied me to the basketball courts or the jungle gym. Generally, I slipped away from the park during a lull in the action and returned as stealthily as I had gone, foisting Roald Dahl paperbacks on my mother and scrambling to rejoin my friends in arguing the relative merits of the Hulk and Superman. I never thought to integrate these passions; they remained firmly segregated. That Clark Kent and Willy Wonka should never cross paths was a given; the giants existed in separate realms of my life.
More than anything else, my Regis career has reversed that assumption. I now recognize that my intellectual growth and my peer community are inextricably linked. I have come to regard those who surround me not simply as a network of friends, but most vitally as components in the ongoing work of education. I understand that an individualized process of learning is intellectually impoverished. The most startling of my educational epiphanies have occurred in the context of fellow students. Case in point: my acquaintance with Albert Camus’ absurdist manifesto, The Stranger. My first reading of the classic, in sixth grade, came in an atomized intellectual climate. As a result, my understanding of Camus’ philosophy was tenuous, so much so that, feeling incapable of defending or even articulating my interpretation of the work, I eschewed any discussion and shunned the chance for error. Satisfied in my ignorance, I disdainfully explained to my inquiring parents, “Oh, it wasn’t much of a murder mystery. You know who kills the Arab all along. And that whole mother angle just doesn’t fit.” My second encounter with Camus came in my junior French elective, this time in the company of an insightful octet of Francophones. As we grappled with Camus’ vision of the absurd world and Meursault’s statement of revolt, an understanding emerged from the sundrenched Algerian beach. Each member of the class offered his insights for consideration, risking the scrutiny of the group but confident in its intellectual generosity. The rigorous standards of the class, and our common desire for understanding, led eventually to firmer comprehension. My balanced interpretation of Camus derived only from the intensity of discussion, the contributions of my peers, and our mutual willingness to share our insights⋯⋯(更多内容请点击原文)
Sensibility-- by Amanda Davis
The putrid stench of rotten salmon wafts through the boardwalk, permeating the Five Star Café with a fishy odor. I stand, chopping red peppers for tomorrow’s soba salad, in the back of the minuscule kitchen. Adam, a pretty boy with cropped hair, stands beside me, relating tales of snowboarding in Sweden while slicing provolone cheese. Tourists walk by the café, some peering in through the windows, others interested only in fish swimming upstream �C clicks of cameras capture the endless struggle for survival. It is 3:00 in the afternoon, the lunch rush has died down, the evening rush has not yet started. I relax in the rhythmic trance of the downward motion of the knife, as I watch the red peppers fall into precise slices. The door opens. A customer.
Adam looks toward me. “Your turn.”
I nod, pull myself away from the peppers, and turn to the register. A man stands, looking at me. His eyes, hidden under tangled gray hair, catch mine, and my eyes drop, down to his arms.
Spider lines of old tattoos stand out, words and pictures and symbols sketched on thin, almost emaciated arms. I know I am staring. I look up.
“Can I help you?” I brightly ask.
He looks at me warily. “A cup of coffee.”
Adam hands him a cup and goes back to slicing.
“That will be one dollar, sir.” He fumbles in his pocket, and pulls out a wrinkled dollar bill. He extends his hand, then �C suddenly �C pulls back. His face changes, and he leans toward me, casting a frightened glance at the cash register.
“Is that �C is that --” he stumbles over his words. “Is that alive?”
I look to the machine. Its common gray exterior rests on the counter, the green numerals displaying the amount owed. I think of my first days at the Five Star, when I was sure that it was alive �C a nefarious machine manipulating the costs to cause my humiliation⋯⋯
“Should I Jump?”
As I stood atop the old railroad-bridge some six stories above the water, my mind was racing down convoluted paths of thought: Logic and reason would oblige me to get off this rusting trestle, run to my car, fasten my seat belt, and drive home carefully while obeying the speed limit and stopping for any animals which might wander into my path. This banal and utterly safe scenario did not sit well with me. I felt the need to do something reckless and impetuous.
“Why am I doing this?”
I backed up to where I could no longer see the huge drop which awaited me, and then, my whole body trembling with anticipation, I ran up to the edge, and hurled myself off the bridge.
“Do I have a death wish? Will my next conversation be with Elvis or Jimmy Hoffa?” The first jump off the bridge was like nothing I had ever experienced. I do not have a fascination with death, and I do not display suicidal tendencies, yet I loved throwing myself off that bridge, despite the objections of the logical part of my brain. Standing up there, I recalled from physics that I should be pulled toward the earth with an acceleration of 9.8m/s/s. G-forces meant nothing to me once I stepped off the edge of the bridge, though. I felt like I was in the air for an eternity (although I was actually only in the air for about three seconds).
This leap was at once the most frightening and most exhilarating experience of my life. That synergy of fear and excitement brought about a unique kind of euphoria. Jumping off and feeling the ground fall out from underneath me was incredible. I have rock-climbed and rappelled extensively, but those experiences cannot compare, either in fear or in thrill, to jumping off a bridge⋯⋯
“Dandelion Dreams”--By Emmeline Chuang
My big sister once told me that if I shut my eyes and blew on a dandelioin puff, all of my wishes would come true. I used to believe her and would wake up early in the morning to go dandelion hunting. How my parents must have laughed to see me scrambling out in the backyard, plucking little gray weeds, and blowing out the seeds until my cheeks hurt.
I made the most outrageous wishes. I wished to own a monkey, a parrot, and a unicorn; I wished to grow up and be just like She-Ra, Princess of Power. And, of course, I wished for a thousand more wishes so I would never run out.
I always believed my wishes would come true. When they didn’t, I ran to my sister and demanded an explanation. She laughed and said I just hadn’t done it right. “It only works if you do it a certain way,” she told me with a little smile. I watched her with side, admiring eyes and thought she must be right. She was ten years older than me and knew the ways of the world; nothing she said could be wrong. I went back and tried again.
Time passed, and I grew older. My “perfect” sister left home �C not telling my parents where she had gone. Shocked by her apparent fall from grace, I spent most of my time staring out the window. I wondered where she had gone and why she hadn’t told us where she was going. Occasionally, I wandered outside to pluck a few dandelions and wish for my sister’s return. Each time, I hoped desperately that I had done it the right way and that the wish would come true.
But it never happened⋯⋯