哈佛大学
蝉联各种权威排名榜首位的世界名校！
近期官网发布了10个优秀学子的申请文书和成绩
并附有招生官亲笔点评！
到底那些成功突击，打破哈佛大学招生官们坚固心防的文书，是什么样的呢？
由于篇幅有限，本文只能呈现前5篇文书，可是真正的优质内容一个都不能错过！
咨询明德小助手索取【完整版哈佛大学录取文书】！
和其他学校的优秀文书有所区别的是，哈佛的文书还包括了申请人的三维和背景信息，还有招生官对文书的点评。
同学们在参考文书写作的时候，也能比对着文书作者们的条件，看看自己是不是可能成为下一个进入美国名校的人！
Bobby
State：California, USA
High School：Private boarding school, 100 students in graduating class
Ethnicity：Asian
Gender：Male
GPA：4.0 out of 4.0
SAT：Reading 750, Math 750, Writing 800
ACT：n/a
SAT Subject Tests Taken：Mathematics Level 2, Biology E/M, Literature
Extracurriculars：Nonprofit director, Editor-in-Chief of student newspaper, Senior Editor of literary magazine, Art Prefect, varsity baseball player
Awards：Williams Book Prize, National Merit Scholar, AP Scholar with Distinction, Scholastic Art and Writing Regional Gold Key
Major：Government
ESSAY
Bold white rafters ran overhead, bearing upon their great iron shoulders the weight of the skylight above. Late evening rays streamed through these sprawling glass panes, casting a gentle glow upon all that they graced—paper and canvases and paintbrushes alike. As day became night, the soft luminescence of the art studio gave way to a fluorescent glare, defining the clean rectilinear lines of Dillon Art Center against the encroaching darkness. It was a studio like no other. Modern. Sophisticated. Professional.
And it was clean and white and nice.
But it just wasn't it.
Because to me, there was only one "it," and "it" was a little less than two thousand miles west, an unassuming little office building located amidst a cluster of similarly unassuming little office buildings, distinguishable from one another on the outside only by the rusted numbers nailed to each door. Inside, crude photocopies of students' artwork plastered the once white walls. Those few openings in between the tapestry of art were dotted with grubby little handprints, repurposed by some overzealous young artist as another surface for creative expression. In the middle of the room lay two long tables, each covered with newspaper, upon which were scattered dried-up markers and lost erasers and bins of unwanted colored pencils. These were for the younger children. The older artists—myself included—sat around these tables with easels, in whatever space the limited confines of the studio allowed. The instructor sometimes talked, and we sometimes listened. Most of the time, though, it was just us—children, drawing and talking and laughing and sweating in the cluttered and overheated mess of an art studio.
No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice. But I have drawn—rather, lived—in this studio for most of my past ten years. I suppose this is strange, as the rest of my life can best be characterized by everything the studio is not: cleanliness and order and structure. But then again, the studio was like nothing else in my life, beyond anything in which I've ever felt comfortable or at ease.
Sure, I was frustrated at first. My carefully composed sketchbooks—the proportions just right, the contrast perfected, the whiteness of the background meticulously preserved—were often marred by the frenzied strokes of my instructor's charcoal as he tried to teach me not to draw accurately, but passionately. I hated it. But thus was the fundamental gap in my artistic understanding—the difference between the surface realities that I wanted to depict, and the profound though elusive truths of the human condition that art could explore. It was the difference between drawing a man's face and using abstraction to explore his soul.
And I can't tell you exactly when or why my attitude changed, but eventually my own lines began to unabashedly disregard the rules of depth or tonality to which I had once dutifully adhered, my fervor leaving in its wake black fingerprints and smudges where once had existed unsoiled whiteness. It was in this studio that I eventually made the leap into a new realm of art—a realm in which I was neither experienced nor comfortable. Apart from surface manifestations altogether, this realm was simultaneously one of austere simplicity and aesthetic intricacy, of departure from realism and immersion in reality, of intense emotion and uninhibited expression. It was the realm of lines that could tell stories, of colors and figures that meant nothing and everything.
Indeed, it was the realm of disorder and messy studios and true art—a place where I could express the world like I saw it, in colors and strokes unrestrained by expectations or rules; a place where I could find refuge in the contours of my own chaotic lines; a place that was neither beautiful nor ideal, but real.
No, it was not so clean and not so white and not so nice.
But then again, neither is art.
哈佛招生官点评：
Perhaps the most prominent facet of Bobby's essay is the use of imagery. It is first utilized to bring the reader into the piece and make the introduction pop, with “Late evening rays [...] casting a gentle glow” and “the soft luminescence of the art studio” becoming “a fluorescent glare.” Immediately, the reader knows what the essay will generally be about: art. Still, in the beginning of the essay, a lot of information is left out, leaving the reader begging for details to contextualize the mental images Bobby leaves them. Throughout the rest of the piece, Bobby’s use of imagery brings his essay to life, with “black fingerprints and smudges” and “unsoiled whiteness” being used to describe his art. He also uses imagery to illustrate the contrast between his organized, type A persona and the abstract art he eventually creates. One such example is “the whiteness of the background” on his sketchbook being “meticulously preserved” but yet “marred by the frenzied strokes of my instructor's charcoal.”
Nevertheless, imagery alone does not provide the concrete, powerful narrative found in Bobby's essay. One of the most powerful appeals of the essay is that it represents a coming-of-age story that echoes the Bildungsroman literary sub-genre, in which characters evolve psychologically from youth to adulthood during the story. Indeed, not only does this essay document Bobby’s development from child to young adult, but Bobby’s art also matures from something orderly and superficial to something abstract and deeply meaningful.
What separates Bobby's essay from a well-written story, however, is the subtextual narrative it provides the reader. Though, on the surface, Bobby’s essay explores the contrast between the abstractness of his art and the order of rest of his life, it also mirrors the history of art itself. Just as Bobby the old artist had “the proportions just right, the contrast perfected” in his sketchbook, so too did the painters of the Renaissance work tirelessly to master perspective—to make art seem as realistic as possible. Just as Bobby the new artist’s “lines began to unabashedly disregard the rules of depth or tonality,” so too did art slowly—from the playful light of Monet's Impressionism, to the square faces of Picasso's Cubism and the complete abstraction of Pollock's expressionism—care less and less about how realistic it was and more about the message it conveyed. In Bobby's words, “It was the difference between drawing a man's face and using abstraction to explore his soul.”
Disclaimer : With exception of the removal of identifying details, essays are reproduced as originally submitted in applications ; any errors in submissions are maintained to preserve the integrity of the piece.
Marshall
State：California, USA
High School：Public school, 422 students in graduating class
Ethnicity：Biracial
Gender：Male
GPA：4.5 out of 4.0
SAT：Reading 800, Math 800, Writing 800
ACT：33
SAT Subject Tests Taken：Mathematics Level 2, Biology E/M, Physics, U.S. History
Extracurriculars：Science Bowl team captain, intern at U.S. Congressman's District Office, varsity tennis, Interact Club President, senior class president
Awards：Ron Brown Goldman Sachs Scholar; CA Science Olympiad State gold medalist
Major：Environmental Science and Public Policy
ESSAY
For the longest time there were two people waking up in my bed each morning, and neither of them knew who I was. One boy dedicated his time to observe the remains of an assassin bug, a hugely impactful predator with a name fit for its voracious nature. The other boy spent his early mornings reading the newspaper. A devastating cyclone had just hit the people of Burma, a thuggish ruling junta was causing havoc in their lives, and the young boy had to know about it. Although the two boys didn’t fully understand the implications of a loss of a particular species in a food web or restrictive trade policies on poor countries without much arable land, they still yearned for more knowledge.
Who was I? A future lab scientist, or the next president to come out of the state of California? Early on, my mother could see this dichotomy developing within my own personality. I got many puzzled looks when I asked for a subscription to TIME magazine along with a microscope kit for my tenth birthday. My career ambitions would seesaw between an astronaut and world traveler. The two Marshalls would battle for a supermajority of the hours in each day until I decided to be the critical vote to swing toward one Marshall or the other. These two halves behaved like two brothers; a modern day Cain and Abel with my punishment seemingly being sternal self-damnation.
Approaching adolescence, the two Marshalls would fight for relevance in my mind. One, an active soccer defender, would yell war cries in the middle of his match in a not-so-well-thought-out attempt at intimidation. The other knew his way around a World Book encyclopedia set, even at the expense of social crucifixion. Stevie Wonder was blasting from speakers as I studied the origins of Greek democracy. Hardly anyone my age paid attention to news that didn't make headlines. I’d be their CNN, a young Wolf Blitzer, analyzing a multifaceted humanitarian crisis although with little knowledge of historical context. I struggled immensely with the thought of my future. The conclusion drawn from these explanations was simple: the two Marshalls had no place together.
After several years of intense self-reflection, I realized college would be the platform where I could passionately grow and find out who I want to be in this world. I could go to an amazing school that has some of the world’s best professors and push me to consider every side of a complex issue. I can picture myself starting the day studying the decay patterns of radioactive elements and finishing the day by debating the success of the Nuclear Non-Proliferation treaty. Whether I end up working for a private energy corporation or the U.S. State Department, I know at this very moment that this is what I needed all along. I needed an avenue to continue to grow in both of my fields of interest. I would not be limited to one half of my heart. My two Marshalls, it turns out, were not mutually exclusive, but rather dependent on one another.
哈佛招生官评论：
Marshall begins this essay with an engaging paragraph describing two unknown people who shared a bed with him for many years. While grabbing the attention of the reader with an intriguing description of his morning awakenings, Marshall begins to describe the two halves of his intellectual curiosities that shape his ambitions for the future and provide a framework for the remainder of his essay. The meaning of the two mysterious figures becomes clear as Marshall describes the tension between his various passions and how each one has shaped his aspirations.
The strength of Marshall's essay lies in its ability to communicate personal details about his past in an engaging and concise manner. Marshall plays with the dichotomy between the two characters in his bed to reveal a level of personal depth which otherwise falls unnoticed in his application. As he outlines his aspirations for the future we learn more about how he spends his time today.This essay shows us the open mind of an ambitious applicant whose future is still an open book.
Jessica
Country：Bulgaria
High School：Public school, 30 students in graduating class
Ethnicity：White
Gender：Female
GPA：6.0 out of 6.0
SAT：Reading 730, Math 760, Writing 800
ACT：n/a
SAT Subject Tests Taken：Literature, World History
Extracurriculars：Tennis player, coordinator and volunteer in the Youth Parliament (non-governmental organization), class president and member of the student council, editor in chief of the high school newspaper.
Awards：Essay Competition finalist in Sustainability Debate, third place in Literary Essay Competition, first place in Bulgaria si ti! English competition, third place in English Language Olympiad, third place in Bilingual English/Russian competition
Major：Social Anthropology
ESSAY
As a child raised on two continents, my life has been defined by the “What if…?” question. What if I had actually been born in the United States? What if my parents had not won that Green card? What if we had stayed in the USA and had not come back to Bulgaria? These are the questions whose answers I will never know (unless, of course, they invent a time machine by 2050).
“Born in Bulgaria, lived in California, currently lives in Bulgaria” is what I always write in the About Me section of an Internet profile. Hidden behind that short statement is my journey of discovering where I belong.
My parents moved to the United States when I was two years old. For the next four years it was my home country. I was an American. I fell in love with Dr. Seuss books and the PBS Kids TV channel, Twizzlers and pepperoni, Halloweens and Thanksgivings the yellow school bus and the “Good job!” stickers.
It took just one day for all of that to disappear. When my mother said “We are moving back to Bulgaria,” I naively asked, “Is that a town or a state?”
Twenty hours later I was standing in the middle of an empty room, which itself was in the middle of an unknown country.
It was then that the “what if” — my newly imagined adversary—made its first appearance. It began to follow me on my way to school. It sat right behind me in class. No matter what I was doing, I could sense its ubiquitous presence.
The “what if” slowly took its time over the years. Just when it seemed to have faded away, it reappeared resuming its tormenting influence on me—a constant reminder of all that could have been. What if I had won that national competition in the United States? What if I joined a Florida tennis club? What if I became a part of an American non-governmental organization? Would I value my achievements more if I had continued riding that yellow school bus every morning?
But something—at first unforeseen and vastly unappreciated—gradually worked its way into my heart and mind loosening the tight grip of the “what if”—Bulgaria. I rediscovered my home country—hours spent in the library reading about Bulgaria’s history spreading over fourteen centuries, days reading books and comparing the Glagolitic and Cyrillic scripts, years traveling to some of the most remote corners of my country. It was a cathartic experience and with it finally came the discovery and acceptance of who I am.
I no longer feel the need to decide where I belong. I am like a football fan that roots for both teams during the game. (If John Isner ever plays a tennis match against Grigor Dimitrov, I will definitely be like that fan.) Bulgaria and the USA are not mutually exclusive. Instead, they complement each other in me, whether it be through incorporating English words in my daily speech, eating my American pancakes with Bulgarian white brine cheese, or still having difficulty communicating through gestures (we Bulgarians are notoriously famous for shaking our heads side to side when we mean “yes” and nodding to mean “no).
As a child raised on two continents, my life will be defined by the “What…?” question. What have Bulgaria and the USA given me? What can I give them back? What does the future hold for me? This time, I will not need a time machine to find the answers I am seeking.
哈佛招生官评论：
Jessica's essay elaborates on key themes of identity as an American and Bulgarian, scholar and tennis player, and answers questions the reader will have about her extracurricular passions and motivations.
The essay is a variation on the classic college essay theme where a potential hardship becomes positive. Here, she tells the story of overcoming a life lived in constant contemplation of hypotheticals to one where duality not a source of confusion, but one that “complements” each other. Jessica’s essay suggests that she has transcended distinction and demonstrates maturity with an ability to appreciate the quirks of both her American and Bulgarian identities.
Jessica's “rediscovery” of her home country serves as an opportunity for her to mention her interests and hobbies, providing context and narrative support for the extracurricular activities she probably lists on her application. Speaking about Bulgarian history, travels, and code switching, Jessica conveys a cultural awareness and keen observation of nuance in her essay.
Jessica's essay could have been used a bit more of thorough examination of how her “rediscovery” translated to her ultimate response to the “what if” question. It takes a distinct experience—splitting a childhood between two vastly different worlds—but doesn't go far enough in exploring the process behind her transformation to make her story of self-discovery truly substantive or original.
Ariel
State：Maryland, USA
High School：Public school, 450 students in graduating class
Ethnicity：Black, African American
Gender：Female
GPA：3.94 out of 4.0
SAT：Reading 750, Math 770, Writing 800
ACT：n/a
SAT Subject Tests Taken：Mathematics Level 2, Biology E/M, U.S. History
Extracurriculars：Shakespeare Club president/director, French Club president, literary magazine editor in chief, newspaper creative writing editor, preprofessional musical theater program outside of school
Awards：Second place Poetry Out Loud competition, two honorable mentions in Scholastic Art and Writing awards, AP Scholar with Distinction
Major：Philosophy
ESSAY
“Black Eyeliner Does Not Make You a Non-Conformist”
Several years ago, my mother told me I listen to “white people music.” And I suppose that's true—rock ‘n’ roll tends to spring from the middle-class basements of young, white men. Though I did point out that its origins trace back to jazz musicians of the Harlem Renaissance. Also that one of the greatest guitarists of all time—dear Mr. Hendrix; may he rest in peace—was black.
My devotion to punk rock began in seventh grade, when Green Day's “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” came up on my iTunes shuffle. I started to look into their other releases, eventually immersing myself into the complete punk discography. My mother, having grown up in a racially segregated New York, was more likely to listen to Stevie Wonder than Stevie Nicks. But, she must have figured, to each her own.
So while my compatriots indulged in the music of Taylor Swift, One Direction, and Lady Gaga, my tacky Hot Topic headphones blasted Green Day, Ramones, and The Clash. My young adolescent ears drank in the raw, chaotic beauty, an echo of the pain of the past. The thrashing, pulsating vitality of the instruments painted a picture, connecting me to the disillusioned kids who launched an epic movement of liberation some 40 years ago.
Punkers question authority. Aggressively contrarian, they advocate for the other side—the side that seemed smothered silent during the post-Vietnam era. They rejected established norms. They spoke out and weren't afraid.
I had always felt different from my peers. In my girls’ prep school, the goal was to be blond and good at soccer. I was neither, which automatically deemed me “uncool.” I had a few close friends but never felt like I was part of a whole.
Then came the punk philosophy, for the outliers, for those who were different. That was something I could be part of.
Instead of trying to conform to my peers, I adopted an anti-conformist attitude. Much like the prematurely grey anti-hero of my favorite book, I sneered at all the “phonies” around me. I resented anything popular. Uggs? Wouldn't buy them. Yoga pants? Never. Starbucks? Well, I could make a few concessions.
But I felt more cynical than liberated. I wasted so much energy on being different that I lost track of what actually made me happy. I insisted I didn't care what people thought of me, which was true. Yet if I base my actions almost solely on their behavior, how could I deny their influence?
Luckily, as I transitioned from a private school to a brand new public high school, I got to clean the slate. I bought yoga pants and found they were comfortable. I listened to a wider variety of music, even the kind that wasn't 100% hardcore punk. And I was happier.
I revised my punk philosophy: Do as you like—whether it fits into the “system” or not.
The Beatles's “Revolution” lyrics sum it up well：
You tell me it's the institution
Well, you know
You'd better free your mind instead
What I think Lennon was getting at is questioning everything does not entail opposing everything. Defiance for the sake of defiance is unproductive at best, destructive at worst.
I believe in life's greater Truths, like Love and Justice. These Truths are what should govern my actions—not what's popular and what isn't. Striving to act on these ideals has helped me stay true to myself, regardless of what's considered “conformist.”
Perhaps I've failed the punk movement. We'll have to wait and see.
In the meantime, I'll do what makes me happy and change what doesn't. I'll wear Doc Martens instead of Uggs; I'll partake in a grande pumpkin spice latte; I’ll watch Gossip Girl; I'll blare my favorite guitar solo over the speakers in my room.
And that's as punk as it gets.
哈佛招生官点评：
Ariel's essay—a pitch-perfect portrait of coming-of-age malaise—shows that you don't need some monumental event or life-changing epiphany to craft a compelling narrative. Not much happens over the 647 words of this essay, but the soul is in the details: the nods to her mother, the subtle Catcher in the Rye allusion, the levity to be found in her unyielding fondness for lattes.
This essay follows a relatable and adaptable template: let's call it the “blind-but-now-I-see” script. Ariel opens the piece as a causeless rebel (rocking out to Green Day, granted), but blooms into a more nuanced being with a worldview of her own making. Importantly, the young heroine's quest is shown as much as told, with motifs like yoga pants and Uggs serving as markers of her growing maturity. The essay also showcases Ariel's mastery of cadence—making good use of the em-dash and colon—and her willingness to experiment with prose as she spells out her capital-T Truths. Though Ariel's story has been told and retold between the covers of countless young adult novels, she tells it with wit and warmth, portraying herself to admissions officers as a particularly self-aware, free-thinking applicant.
Emily
State：Pennsylvania, USA
High School：Private school, 120 students in graduating class
Ethnicity：Asian
Gender：Female
GPA：3.91 out of 4.0
SAT：Reading 800, Math 780, Writing 800
ACT：n/a
SAT Subject Tests Taken：Mathematics Level 2, Biology M, Chemistry, Spanish
Extracurriculars：Varsity tennis captain, varsity swimming captain, Mock Trial captain, Student Council Officer, A.I duPont Hospital Volunteer
Awards：Diamond Challenge Grand Prize Winner, Lincoln Scholarship Essay, National Merit finalist, National Honor Society scholarship finalist, Pennsylvania Governor's School for the Sciences Scholarship
Major：Human Developmental and Regenerative Biology
ESSAY
Clear, hopeful melodies break the silence of the night.
Playing a crudely fashioned bamboo pipe, in the midst of sullen inmates—this is how I envision my grandfather. Never giving up hope, he played every evening to replace images of bloodshed with memories of loved ones at home. While my grandfather describes the horrors of his experience in a forced labor camp during the Cultural Revolution, I could only grasp at fragments to comprehend the story of his struggle.
I floundered in this gulf of cultural disparity.
As a child, visiting China each summer was a time of happiness, but it was also a time of frustration and alienation. Running up to my grandpa, I racked my brain to recall phrases supposedly ingrained from Saturday morning Chinese classes. Other than my initial greeting of “Ni hao, ye ye!” (“Hello, grandpa”), however, I struggled to form coherent sentences. Unsatisfied, I would scamper away to find his battered bamboo flute, and this time, with my eyes, silently beg him to play.
Although I struggled to communicate clearly through Chinese, in these moments, no words were necessary. I cherished this connection—a relationship built upon flowing melodies rather than broken phrases. After each impromptu concert, he carefully guided my fingers along the smooth, worn body of the flute, clapping after I successfully played my first tentative note. At the time, however, I was unaware of that through sharing music, we created language of emotion, a language that spanned the gulf of cultural differences. Through these lessons, I discovered an inherent inclination toward music and a drive to understand this universal language of expression.
Years later, staring at sheets of music in front of me at the end of a long rehearsal, I saw a jumbled mess of black dots. After playing through “An American Elegy” several times, unable to infuse emotion into its reverent melodies that celebrated the lives lost at Columbine, we—the All-State Band—were stopped yet again by our conductor Dr. Nicholson. He directed us to focus solely on the climax of the piece, the Columbine Alma Mater. He urged us to think of home, to think of hope, to think of what it meant to be American, and to fill the measures with these memories. When we played the song again, this time imbued with recollections of times when hope was necessary, “An American Elegy” became more than notes on a page; it evolved into a tapestry woven from the thread of our life stories.
The night of the concert, in the lyrical harmonies of the climax, I envisioned my grandfather, exhausted after a long day of labor, instilling hope in the hearts of others through his bamboo flute. He played his own “elegy” to celebrate the lives of those who had passed. At home that night, no words were necessary when I played the alma mater for my grandfather through the video call. As I saw him wiping tears, I smiled in relief as I realized through music I could finally express the previously inexpressible. Reminded of warm summer nights, the roles now reversed, I understood the lingual barrier as a blessing in disguise, allowing us to discover our own language.
Music became a bridge, spanning the gulf between my grandfather and me, and it taught me that communication could extend beyond spoken language. Through our relationship, I learned that to understand someone is not only to hear the words that they say, but also to empathize and feel as they do. With this realization, I search for methods of communication not only through spoken interaction, but also through shared experiences, whether they might involve the creation of music, the heat of competition, or simply laughter and joy, to cultivate stronger, more fulfilling relationships. Through this approach, I strive to become a more empathetic friend, student, and granddaughter as finding a common language has become, for me, a challenge—an invitation—to discover deeper connections.
哈佛招生官点评：
In her essay, Emily chooses the mundane over the grandiose—musical interactions with a family member over moments in an international chamber orchestra, for instance—to prove her point that the “cultural disparities” and “gulf” of comprehension that previously prevented her from reaching a harmony of understanding with her grandfather eventually dissolved once she realized that there are other, more personal ways to connect with people than language.
There's something intriguing about how Emily orients the reader with as bright of an image as “clear, hopeful melodies,” and then pairs it with something as somber as the image of a grandfather detained in a forced labor camp. That's a very poignant pairing, and it hooks the reader. For an admissions officer who sifts through countless essays about the all-important “I” a story that places the onus of the introduction on an entirely different individual is a welcome change from the usual.
This author showcases a very distinct claim over language. In some places, the poetic language serves to reinforce the topic of the essay: that language is not necessarily the sole way to connect with people. In some parts, though, the florid language encumbers the sentences and makes them somewhat awkward. In an essay that purports to recognize how incomplete language can be in conveying ideas, using clunky language seems like a betrayal of sorts to the reader. It's important to straddle eloquence and efficiency.
The epiphany conveyed in her final paragraphs is a truly mature one, and perhaps is what adds the final “oomph” to this essay. To see a high school student writing understanding from their everyday exploits proves they are capable of deep introspection—a trait that colleges crave in their student bodies.
（哈佛大学，图片来源于网络）
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