人的一生会错过很多风景同时也会经历很多故事。经历可以强大我们的身心；经历可以丰富我们的阅历；经历可以拓展我们的视野；经历可以让我们清晰的看清未来的方向并努力奋斗在通往成功的路上。。。。。。
未知的、刺激的柬埔寨之旅——
飞机正载我驰往那个神奇的国度，刚吃完饭我就迫不及待的和坐在右手边的陌生男子聊起来了。“你觉不觉得柬埔寨特别有趣？”我问，“为什么？”他好奇的问道。（穿插一句废话）刚上幼儿园的时候，老师就常常叮嘱我们不要和陌生人说话。但是，我却不是一个听话的孩子，我呢？这18年来，觉得与人交往比什么都重要，所以，我会尽一切机会与陌生人聊天。即使对于这位刚从曼谷出差回来的比利时推销员也不例外。
其实我的心里已经准备了关于这个问题比较简单的回答了。柬埔寨有趣的现代历史、耐人寻味的“高棉”文化[1]等真实的特色：虽然不是所有的历史都是真实的。坦白的说，我不讨厌这个比利时男人而且我有足够的时间可以向他解释清楚。既然要把一件事情说明白，那么我就要掰开了揉碎了好好叨叨它的过去了。。。。。。
我可以毫不避讳的说，小的时候我听过一个演讲经历丰富的治疗师的一次讲座，给我的感触很深。过去我说话声音很高，节奏也比一般人快很多。一旦我中间突然慢下来我就会结巴。当然，现在已经完全不会了。虽然我已经成功的跳过了那个阶段，但记忆还在，并一直影响着我对语言及其与世界之间关系的看法。
十年前，曾经有很长一段时间，有一个想法一直在我脑海里挥之不去。争强好胜的思想一直潜藏在我的大脑深处并不断蚕食着我的灵魂，希望占据我的思想并与世界共享。在当时，毫无逻辑可循的言语着实让我吃尽苦头。大部分的孩子说话都是不经过大脑思考的，而我希望通过仔细的思考把我的意思表达的尽可能的清楚明白，因此，我会经常纠结在某种发音上，但是，我觉得这是值得的。
我觉得从语言到思维是一个持久的意识加工的过程。当我还不够成熟的时候，我觉得语言与周围事物（数字6、6个苹果、莫奈的画、百合花池塘）是孤立开来的。语言只是一种简单方便的工具而已。这样理解后，我可以带着一种轻松的心态去欣赏文字的艺术。从它表面上的坚硬顽固、朴实无华就可以领略到其灵魂深处的新意和魅力。正如达利[2]通过其灵巧的双手将他丰富的想象力雕刻在岩壁上一样，我要借助语言的灵活性将我的想象力书写在纸张上。明白了这一点，语言障碍在我眼里成为了最美好的礼物。它让我可以终我一生来写作并体会语言中流露出的最细腻的感觉。
当我正遨游在语言艺术中时，成长的阶段提醒我遗漏了其他珍贵的环节：语言与思维之间的联系。艺术表现的是主观的美丽而不是客观事实，翻译也有不足之处。了解到这一点，我渐渐对历史和人类学有了浓厚的兴趣。举例说明：当我浏览到一篇评论关于中国人对当今政府的态度时，我不禁想到了一个词：”respect” 。这个看似简单只有7个字母组成的单词却包裹着多少复杂和历史的纠结啊！想到这里随即我就有了要去曾研究过的地方旅游的冲动。我要切身的去感受当地民风民俗；我要亲自在当地的街道上走一走。我不要戴着有色眼镜，只凭别人的说法来看待一个国家和地方。我必须承认，在过去的7月里，没有一个国家的社会力量和历史现实可以与柬埔寨相匹敌，所以，我来了。
但我为什么要称这个位于东南亚酷热、贫穷一角的柬埔寨有趣呢？因为，这是我长久以来一直魂牵梦绕的地方。因为我可以亲自去体会国选期间让人心惊的这样一个刚起步的粗暴的民主国家，而不是通过UN选举观察报告得知；我想要走在屠尸遍野的红色高棉之都，感受着耳边的柔风细语，而不是通过阅读了解其不可言喻的残暴；我想要看看当地人们干涩无神的眼神里的游离，让他们看看我的国家，而不是各种媒体上所写的民风民俗；我想要感觉到那里——吴哥窟正与波尔布特[3]的幽灵共舞，那里有着奇怪的悖论，古老的雄威与现代化的贫穷相伴和谐共处，而不是通过贫乏枯燥的经济数据统计看到。
那位比利时男子只是简单的点头。我希望他能听懂我的英语。
注释：
1.高棉文化：是指1863年起，柬埔寨被法国占领，法语中Khmer是高棉人、高棉族的意思；西方人称柬埔寨共产主义游击队。
2. 萨尔瓦多·达利（萨尔瓦多·多明哥·菲利普·哈辛托·达利-多梅内克，普波尔侯爵）是著名的西班牙加泰罗尼亚画家，因他的超现实主义作品而闻名。他与毕加索、马蒂斯一起被认为是二十世纪最有代表性的三个画家。他最知名的作品之一是1931年创作完成的《记忆的永恒》，也被叫做《软表》。
3. 波尔布特（Pol Pot，原名Saloth Sar桑洛沙，1928年5月19日─1998年4月15日），柬埔寨共产党总书记。 1976年至1979年间出任民主柬埔寨总理。1975年，他发动红色高棉运动，推翻原来亲美国的朗诺政权，建立一党专政的独裁政府。后人评论他：1）历史没有垃圾箱；2）神秘政党的惊世之举；3）周恩来的善意劝告；4）“革命化”；5）不回归社会终告灭亡。
ESSAY赏析
如果不是悖论，至少也堪称惊奇了吧！大量丰富的词汇与有限的语言。截止目前收到的ESSAY，这篇堪称哲学味道最强了。“Words, I realized, were simply fluid and convenient tools of description”从作者的字里行间不难看出作者对语言人类学的热情。
通读全文后，不难想象作者的心路历程。行文结构将这一点紧密的连系在一起让读者看到了作者对语言独特的视角。作者大胆的借用晦涩深奥的描写点名自己对语言的热爱，实在是一种冒险行为；但是，作者巧妙的将其串联在与陌生男子谈话之间，实在是绝。为了更加严密的说明，作者道明了自己去柬埔寨旅游的原因，不但彰显了散文的张力更点名了写作意图。一系列的描写牵引着读者从飞机上开始一直到作者的童年时期。最后一段，如果再稍微调整一下，直接点题总揽全文岂不更妙。
重要的是，抒发情感总能在实例中找到对应点。针对申请者而言，最具价值的建议是：突出细节。申请者可以想象一下这个场景：XX大学的招生官坐在椅子上，一天十几个小时浏览来自世界各地无数的ESSAY，思考着哪些申请者符合要求；这种看似枯燥无味而又不得掉以轻心的工作实在是艰难，并不像很多人想的那样轻松，仅仅在名单上登记姓名就万事这么简单。如果仅剩下2个小时，他最想做的就是快点结束这种枯燥的行为上学的标注。
本文可能描写的太多了：内容冗长、范围广泛、表达太诗意。但其细节的突出描写外加作者对语言的热爱真实可信。可以算得上是一篇佳作：复杂却不缺乏真实的或想象的空间。
—Jessica Sequeira
参考原文
(27)JOE SULLIVAN—“UNTITLED”
“Why,” he asked, “did you find Cambodia so interesting?” After a satisfying in-flight meal, I had begun chatting with the stranger seated to my right. Despite my kindergarten teacher’s warnings, I talk to strangers whenever I can—eighteen years of living have convinced me that chance encounters are simply too important to do otherwise. This Belgian salesman returning from business in Bangkok was no exception.
I had developed a repertoire of simple answers to his question: the intriguing modern history, the fascinating Khmer culture, the off-the-beaten-path-ness. None were lies and all were convenient, but none were the whole truth. I liked this guy and I had time, so I gave him a full answer. To fully understand my answer to his question, first accompany me for a quick stroll into the past.
It’s safe to say that as a young boy I visited a speech therapist more often than most. I used to speak at a dazzlingly high and unintelligible rate, churning out words faster than most people type. If I slowed down, I stuttered. These childhood speech delays are no longer audible in the way I speak, and I have since outgrown them. But their legacy persists, affecting how I think about language and its relationship with the world.
Ten years ago, a thought would wade into my stream of consciousness, splashing around for a while before wanting to move on. The feisty thought would then itch and poke at my mind, gnawing away as it begged to be put into words and shared with the world. Having a speech disorder made that last part painfully difficult at times. Whereas most children simply spoke whatever words rolled through their head, I found myself searching for the words I thought would be easiest for me to say—I had more trouble on certain sounds—if I decided it was worth the effort at all.
Because the process of attaching words to thoughts was a drawn-out and conscious process for me, at a young and impressionable age I realized that language is as separable from what it describes as the number six, is from six apples or a Monet painting, is from a lily pond. Words, I realized, were simply fluid and convenient tools of description. This enabled me to develop an appreciation for the artistic potential of the written word, to see beyond its rigid, pragmatic, mundane face and into its creative, ambiguous, abstract soul. Just as a painter like Dalí exploits his physical dexterity to pour his imagination onto the canvas, so did I exploit the linguistic dexterity I acquired as a result of my speech issues, as I let my young imagination bleed ink-black onto the white page. At this point, my speech difficulties became a gift, providing lifetime benefits for me as a writer as I enjoy a heightened sensitivity to the nuances of language.While I appreciate the artistic value of language, I have also grown to believe there is something invariably lost when, in that precious instant, the human mind attaches word to thought. Art provides subjective beauty, not objective fact, and translation always has its victims. This realization had interesting ramifications for my study of history and anthropology, longtime interests of mine. When I read a scholar’s discussion of Chinese attitudes toward government, for example, I could not help but wonder if the seven-letter word “respect” wraps fully around this complex and ancient issue. In time, I developed a nagging desire to travel to the places I studied, to feel the stares of their people and to walk down their streets instead of reading somebody else’s words about them. And, in my opinion, no other nation could match the exciting blend of social forces and historical realities swirling around in Cambodia this past July. I couldn’t resist.
So, why did I find that sweltering, impoverished corner of Southeast Asia called Cambodia so interesting? Because for so long I had wanted to experience such an intriguing nation for myself. To feel the heartbeat of a fledging and rowdy young democracy during the national elections it held during my stay, and not just read a UN election observer’s report. To hear the wind whisper of the Khmer Rouge as I walked through the killing fields, not read about the ineffable atrocity. To see the wonder in the weathered eyes of its people as I showed them images from my distant home, not read generalizations about their personalities. To see the shadows of Angkor Wat dance with the ghosts of Pol Pot in a land where, in a bizarre paradox, ancient majesty and modern poverty peacefully coexist, not read dry economic statistics.
The Belgian man simply nodded. I hope he understood my English.
COMMENTARY
If not a paradox, it’s at least a curiosity: a dense, language-rich piece about the limits of language itself. As far as college essays go, this one waxes fairly philosophical. “Words, I realized, were simply fluid and convenient tools of description,” the author writes; one gets the sense that he would really enjoy the linguistic anthropology classes on offer here.
It’s easy to imagine such ruminations growing heavy. But the essay’s exemplary structure helps it all hang together—the author provides a solid backbone to his more intangible perspectives on language. An essay that simply dives into one’s love for language runs the risk of falling into indecipherable vagueness, but this writer couches his passion for language within the interaction with the man and his interest in Cambodia, giving flesh to what could have been an otherwise hard-to-describe passion. Furthermore, a narrative about the writer’s reasons for traveling to Cambodia lightens the intensity of the prose and gives the meditations on language a place to hang their hat. An anecdote about striking up a conversation with a stranger on the flight home draws the reader in from the start and serves as a brilliant launching pad for the reflections on his childhood that follow. And the last line—if a tad flip—succeeds in looping back to the introduction to provide a neat bit of symmetry.
Crucially, the lyrical effusions always find consistent backing in concrete example. Of all the suggestions that can be made to college essay writers staring down a blank page, the most useful is probably this: include as much colorful detail as possible. Imagine an admissions officer in his swivel chair on Brattle Street (or whatever the equivalent is at University X). It’s been a long day of wading through transcripts and trying to determine whether the zillionth community-service club presidency entails any duty more involved than writing one’s name on an extracurricular sheet. In short, he’s exhausted, and there are still two hours to go before it’s time to punch out. The last thing he wants is a dull metaphysical exegesis to cross his desk at the eleventh hour.
This essay could’ve been too much—too verbose, too broad-ranging, too poetic. But its concreteness keeps its flights of fancy grounded enough, and the enthusiasm with which its ideas are expressed helps it stay believable. Ultimately, it can be checked off as a definitive success: complex, yet clear enough to engage any reader, real or imagined.
—Jessica Sequeira
