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.
点评：
这是一篇医学专业的文章。
首先先分析文章的结构：
第一段，引出青蛙解剖这件事，为笔者希望从事医学作了铺垫。笔者交代了自己为什么会对医学产生兴趣的原因，也指出了自己在看待这次解剖有着自己的想法。
第二段，点出个人性格，喜欢观察事物，听交响乐，学习历史，使人物形象跃然纸上。令人清楚笔者是个观察力很强，有自己想法的人，而且兴趣十分广泛。
第三，四，五段是总结笔者对医学的认识和感悟。通过正反面的对比，说出了自己的想法，这是文章的升华部分。
总体点评：文章结构很清晰，先通过青蛙解剖引出自己的求学目的，虽然没有惊天动地的经历和成就，华丽的语言，但字里行间可以看出笔者对于医学是有很深认识的。并且运用贴近生活的例子更能引起人的共鸣。
可借鉴要素：其实文书并不一定要求申请者要有个可歌可泣的故事或重大成就，其实对一些细微的事情只要有自己的想法和感悟，也能构成一篇很优秀的文章的。
译文：
解剖
我想第一次被科学吸引应该是在我7年级的时候，当时一只青蛙在我桌前张开躺着，尽管那股甲醇发出的恶臭使我眼睛充满泪水，胃在不停地搅拌着，但我一点也没注意到，因为我被青蛙的构造所迷住了，我在切开它的腹部后发现它的内脏排列很整齐。原来青蛙内部是个很精确的工程奇迹，就好比瑞士手表里的齿轮一样。整个生命过程是完美的，我只能觉察到但无法真正了解。这就是宗教的基础，对更强大力量所拥有的信念其实也代表着对自然界无数无法解释的奇迹的信仰。
我总是喜爱观察模式： 在贝多芬的第15首弦乐四重奏里的点与对位法和和他的克罗伊策奏鸣曲里的高潮和错综复杂的弹奏，例如，就像历史帝国的建立和灭亡一样。
然而特别是错综复杂的生命更是我着迷，那次青蛙的简单小手术使我产生了在医学领域追求的期望。从表面上看这种职业是很简单，无关痛痒的（对于医生而言），还有酬劳。只是把生物体拼图在表面看来合理地拼凑回来。一种药，一把刀就能使病人康复。
然而凡事有两面性，事物的反面使我恐惧：如果拼图无法恢复呢？如果某些地方出了差错，就如动脉爆裂，病人大量出血，几秒钟之内死亡呢？当科学涉及书本上冠冕堂皇的理论，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拟医学的经验。毕竟，这是不存在危险之说，因为它已经死了。但如果让我向一个悲痛欲绝的家庭解释他们为什么会失去年轻的女儿时，这个决定性的现实就会变得过于真实了。
不过，对比起缺乏情感创伤的抽象概念和文字，实际的操作更能满足我。因为那些无法指导人的行为而且毫无个人成就感可言。当然在医学领域，为了平衡无数次的失败，肯定也会伴随着巨大的成功的。有句通俗谚语说：“医学并不是易事。”我想这是对的。在某种程度上，我希望，因为有些人可能会认为一位出色的医生心理上是被感情遮蔽的，我相信要真正成为一位好医生，就必须要生活在敬畏和恐惧当中。对此，我有非常丰富的感情，我既敬畏生命的美好，也惧怕它的脆弱。
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