I think that the first time that science really made sense was in seventh grade, when a frog lay splayed out on the desk in front of me. The stench of formaldehyde made my eyes water and my stomach churn, but I did not really notice, fascinated by the still form, its innards arranged in neat array under the flap I had incised in its abdomen. Inside were the precise engineering marvels, finer than the gearings within a Swiss watch, each perfectly evolved through a process I had only read about and never truly understood. Here was the basis for religion, the faith in a higher power that actually represents faith in the innumerable and incomprehensible wonders of nature.

I have always enjoyed observing patterns: the point and counterpoint in Beethoven's 15th string quartet and the intricate fingerings and crescendo in his Kreutzer sonata, for example, as well as the rise and fall of the empires of history.

It is the intricate patterns of life, however, that particularly fascinate me, and my brief surgery on the frog led me to envision a career in medicine. On the surface it seems simple, painless (for the doctor), and rewarding; just put the jigsaw puzzle of life back together in some semblance of order: a drug here, an incision there, and the patient will be cured.

However, the flip side of the coin terrifies me: what if those jigsaw pieces will not fit back into place? What if something goes wrong, an artery bursts, the patient hemorrhages and dies within seconds? Science is beautiful in an abstract sense when dealing with grand theories, words on a page, even the peaceful revelations of the frog, but perhaps the frog was not a good analogy for the experience of medicine. After all, there was no danger; it had already passed on. If I had to explain to a grieving family why they have lost their young daughter, however, the crushing realities might become just a little too real.

Nevertheless, working hands-on would be more satisfying to me than to remain in abstraction, in a world that, while appealing in its lack of emotional trauma, offers relatively little in the way of direct human application and personal reward. Surely in medicine there must exist great triumphs, something to balance the overwhelming defeats. The common medical adage is that "it never gets easy." I suppose this is true. In a way, I hope that it is because, while some might believe that emotions cloud the mind of a superior doctor, I believe that to truly be a good doctor one must live in constant awe and fear. Those are emotions I possess in abundance: awe at the beauty of life and fear at its fragility.

點評：

這是一篇醫學專業的文章。

首先先分析文章的結構：

第一段，引出青蛙解剖這件事，為筆者希望從事醫學作了鋪墊。筆者交代了自己為什么會對醫學產生興趣的原因，也指出了自己在看待這次解剖有著自己的想法。

第二段，點出個人性格，喜歡觀察事物，聽交響樂，學習歷史，使人物形象躍然紙上。令人清楚筆者是個觀察力很強，有自己想法的人，而且興趣十分廣泛。

第三，四，五段是總結筆者對醫學的認識和感悟。通過正反面的對比，說出了自己的想法，這是文章的升華部分。

總體點評：文章結構很清晰，先通過青蛙解剖引出自己的求學目的，雖然沒有驚天動地的經歷和成就，華麗的語言，但字里行間可以看出筆者對于醫學是有很深認識的。并且運用貼近生活的例子更能引起人的共鳴。

可借鑒要素：其實文書并不一定要求申請者要有個可歌可泣的故事或重大成就，其實對一些細微的事情只要有自己的想法和感悟，也能構成一篇很優秀的文章的。

譯文：

解剖

我想第一次被科學吸引應該是在我7年級的時候，當時一只青蛙在我桌前張開躺著，盡管那股甲醇發出的惡臭使我眼睛充滿淚水，胃在不停地攪拌著，但我一點也沒注意到，因為我被青蛙的構造所迷住了，我在切開它的腹部后發現它的內臟排列很整齊。原來青蛙內部是個很精確的工程奇跡，就好比瑞士手表里的齒輪一樣。整個生命過程是完美的，我只能覺察到但無法真正了解。這就是宗教的基礎，對更強大力量所擁有的信念其實也代表著對自然界無數無法解釋的奇跡的信仰。

我總是喜愛觀察模式： 在貝多芬的第15首弦樂四重奏里的點與對位法和和他的克羅伊策奏鳴曲里的高潮和錯綜復雜的彈奏，例如，就像歷史帝國的建立和滅亡一樣。

然而特別是錯綜復雜的生命更是我著迷，那次青蛙的簡單小手術使我產生了在醫學領域追求的期望。從表面上看這種職業是很簡單，無關痛癢的（對于醫生而言），還有酬勞。只是把生物體拼圖在表面看來合理地拼湊回來。一種藥，一把刀就能使病人康復。

然而凡事有兩面性，事物的反面使我恐懼：如果拼圖無法恢復呢？如果某些地方出了差錯，就如動脈爆裂，病人大量出血，幾秒鐘之內死亡呢？當科學涉及書本上冠冕堂皇的理論，文字，即使是青蛙平和的揭示也是很抽象的，但可能青蛙并不能比擬醫學的經驗。畢竟，這是不存在危險之說，因為它已經死了。但如果讓我向一個悲痛欲絕的家庭解釋他們為什么會失去年輕的女兒時，這個決定性的現實就會變得過于真實了。

不過，對比起缺乏情感創傷的抽象概念和文字，實際的操作更能滿足我。因為那些無法指導人的行為而且毫無個人成就感可言。當然在醫學領域，為了平衡無數次的失敗，肯定也會伴隨著巨大的成功的。有句通俗諺語說：“醫學并不是易事。”我想這是對的。在某種程度上，我希望，因為有些人可能會認為一位出色的醫生心理上是被感情遮蔽的，我相信要真正成為一位好醫生，就必須要生活在敬畏和恐懼當中。對此，我有非常豐富的感情，我既敬畏生命的美好，也懼怕它的脆弱。