哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿

看多了国内大学的开学发言，你是否想知道国外名牌大学的开学发言是怎么样，那么你对哈佛大学的开学演讲有兴趣吗?有兴趣吗?以下是小编为你整理推荐哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿，希望你喜欢。

哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿篇【1】

20xx届的新生们，欢迎你们。

4月份，我在开放日看到大家的时候，很多人还没有决定未来四年在何处度过。让我非常欣慰的是，1667人接受了我们的邀请，选择加入这个群体，成为哈佛这所崇高学府的当下和未来。

正当大家步入大学、开启人生重要新篇章的同时，我们也在经历着一个多事之秋。

自从今年春天与大家见过面之后，还有从5月底在“三百年剧院”召开毕业典礼以来，世界上发生了不少大事。

奥兰多、伊斯坦布尔、达卡、巴格达、巴吞鲁日、达拉斯、尼斯、慕尼黑、密尔沃基……美国国内及全球各地接连不断地发生恐怖和暴力事件。

媒体向我们呈现着一连串令人心碎的画面，战争、流离失所、重伤的儿童，以及绝望的难民。

而在美国国内，仇恨与偏激言论甚嚣尘上，与我们作为美国公民、世界公民以及哈佛社群成员所秉持的基本价值观背道而驰。

今天我就想谈谈这些价值观，谈谈成为一名大学生以及成为哈佛学子意味着什么。

当前，高等学府的身份、宗旨和原则正面临重大挑战。

因此，我想与哈佛大家庭的最新成员，也就是在座的诸位，分享一些对这所大学的思考，以及此时此刻，在哈佛历史上和大家个人的经历中，这一切都意味着什么。

哈佛是一所研究型大学，一所致力于持续发现新识、新知、新理念的学府，因为我们相信，新理念能推动世界进步。

今后大家将在各个不同的层面体会到哈佛的这种精神。

你们的授课教师将参与推进各自领域的认知，也会邀请你们加入这场求索之旅——不论是在实验室中探索干细胞科学的潜力，还是试图减轻疼痛和疾病对人类的折磨，抑或是挖掘图书馆中的特别馆藏，收集中世纪时期的泥金装饰手抄珍本，开一场开拓性的展览。

你们也许会参与鉴定冰芯中的19世纪火山灰，帮助人类更好地理解气候变化过程，或与音乐教授即兴演奏爵士乐。

几个世纪以来，大学一直借助理性的力量，作为一个辩论与交流的熔炉，收集、研究、讨论、扩展、修改并推进着人类认知。哈佛校训是Veritas，意为真理。

这就是我们不懈追求的目标，但我们从不会自大到以为自己已经与真理同在。

追求真理是一种渴望，也是一种激励。

我们相信，世界上永远都有更多的事物需要我们去认识和发现，因此，我们对挑战和变革张开了臂膀。

我们认为，不论是黑洞起源的理论，还是互联网隐私伦理，还是女性在工业革命中所扮演的角色，任何观点都可以被修改、提高并改善。

我们必须不畏犯错，因此要成为哈佛社群的一员，勇气和谦卑不可或缺。

通过新的证据、更加清晰的推理，以及调整后的观点，用更加全面的新理念取代旧观念。

在它的基础之上建立起新的观念，以待日后的挑战。大学必须对能改变理念的争论持开放的态度，并以理性与证据为标准，对它们加以评估。

真理不仅仅是大家日后职业生涯的基础，也是大家在认识自己作为人类、公民、员工、合伙人以及朋友所扮演的角色时，一个必不可少的基础。

那么，在大家对真理展开个人追求之际，这一切对你们都意味着什么呢?大家如何用所受的教育来构建有意义、有目标的生活呢?

当年，正是在这样一场新生致辞中，哈佛大学文理学院院长、已故的杰里米·诺尔斯(Jeremy

Knowles)生动形象地描述了他眼中高等教育的根本目标：让学子们在毕业后，能够辨别哪些话是胡话。

你们将在这里培养出这种眼光与判断力，并在完成四年哈佛之路以后的人生旅途中长久受益。

这种能力的获得，靠的是提出质疑和接受质疑。它需要大家的用心参与。

我在此敦促大家，全身心投入这场严谨的探索中去，投入这股思想的洪流中去，和你们的室友，在走廊上、教室里、网络中，还有《哈佛深红报》(The

Harvard

Crimson)上展开讨论。

我明白，提出自己的观点并为其辩护，这样做不无风险。

它需要勇气，也需要信任——信任所有的理念都有参与公平辩论的机会，相信旁观者也都秉持着开放的心态，且同样投身于对真理的追求。因此，我们希望大家抓住这所大学提供的机遇，成为勇敢的发言者和心态开放的倾听者，促进活跃、高水准的思想交锋。几个世纪以来，大学和师生正是在这样的交流推动下，才不断进步的。

当今世界被专家们称为“后事实世界”，高校必须把握、体现并积极捍卫各自对真理的衡量标准：始终将证据、证明、事实作为知识的基础和行动的依据。哈佛能否做到这一点，取决于大家所有人的努力。

我欢迎大家加入哈佛这个大家庭，其实也是在邀请大家，或者说要求大家，踏上追寻真理的曲折道路，为投身思想交锋的漩涡做好心理准备——接纳一种理念，并随时准备好捍卫它、改变它、重塑它，在找到更好的理念时，也愿意放弃它。

但我也知道，要说服你纵身跃入思想的漩涡、积极充分地参与到这个社群中去，我还得作一些保证。其实，我们需要彼此保证，因为这是我们共同的责任。这又回到了我刚才提到的信任问题。

这个社群中的每一个人都有权发出自己的声音、得到倾听，并得到尊重。

我们共同的生活，这所大学的成功，还有我们对真理的追寻，都取决于此。

只有在拥有足够的安全感，并得到充分接纳和理解的情况下，我们才敢发表不同意见。

近几个月，民族、宗教、种族仇恨的卑劣言论蔓延得如此迅速，给大学的宗旨构成了一种特殊的威胁。

不论这些言论出现在哪里，我们都应随时随地加以抵制。

但我们尤其要警惕它在社群内部的出现。我们必须奋发努力，树立人类共同生活与工作的另一种典范。

我常说，你们大多数人生活过的最多元化的环境也许就是哈佛了。

这是一个学习的机遇，比如周二我就遇到一个来自特拉华州的学生，他的室友来自斯堪的纳维亚;

还有一位学生，作为一名异性恋黑人男生，在勒布戏剧中心主舞台上演的《黑色魔法》(Black

magic)剧中扮演了一名同性恋男子，并在博客中描述了这一经历如何增进了自己对LGBTQ群体的了解;

在刚才的演讲中，艾玛·吴(Emma

Woo)也描述了跟一群信仰各不相同的人共同生活是什么样子。哈佛让我们所有人都能走出自己熟悉的世界，张开臂膀迎接新的认知与新的可能性。

所以，这就是我今天对大家提出的要求：和我们一起，将哈佛建设成我们理想中的学府。要发言，更要聆听。在个人生活和做学问中，全心全意地追寻真理，不畏犯错。这是学习与成长的唯一途径。同时，也要不吝于倾听他人的观点，使大家都敢于冒险。

让我们一起构建一个不同的世界，不同于今年夏天层出不穷的有关暴力与仇恨的骇人报道所呈现出来的那个世界。

让我们每个人都尽自己的力量，让哈佛成为一个相互尊重的社群，让我们做最好的工作，做最好的自己。在当前环境下，这并非一桩易事。

但是，我们比以往任何时候都更需要这样做，更需要团结在一起，更需要这所大学的郑重承诺。

欢迎大家来到哈佛。

哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿篇【2】

今天是新一学年的开始。欢迎各位来到哈佛。大家都是来自不同国家和地区，成长背景与生活环境也各有不同。在此，我想重申哈佛的办学理念和目标。

每当新生到校的时候，我常常会提起，哈佛是个多么多元化的大学，它可能是学生所生活过的最多元化的集体之一。来自不同种族、民族、国家的人们汇聚于此，他们政治观念可能各不相同，性别观与身份认同也各有差异。我们认为，这种不同是哈佛教育中不可分割的一部分。不管你是大学新生，还是满怀抱负的研究生，还是教职员工，都能从哈佛的这种教育中受益。

今年，哈佛的录取政策遭到了质疑，这更是对我们根本原则，对哈佛多元化的努力提出的挑战。在这一学年内，我们会积极应对质疑，向其他的声音证明多元化的重要之处。

然而哈佛的努力还不止于此。我们不仅要为哈佛所招收的优秀学子提供多元化的环境，更要让每个人都有一种归属感。“我就是哈佛的代表，就是哈佛的一部分”，我希望每个学子都可以感受到这一点。光有多样性还不够，归属感、包容性也很重要。要做到这一点，哈佛要做的还有很多。我们知道，我们生活的这个社会充斥着不平等、不公正，这些无形之中对每个人的生活都产生了影响，对于哈佛也是一样。

因此，当我们规划未来、迎接挑战之际，建立一个真正包容的集体非常重要，这项任务也十分艰巨。刚刚入学的新生中，有很多人对于周围同学的文化、国家并不了解，你们彼此对对方也各有期待。因此，大家可能会担心，如果尝试着和不同的人交流，能否得到理解，还是会被忽视、无视?如何让哈佛成为一个相互学习相互了解的集体，而非冷漠忽视?如何消除隐性歧视并从中吸取教训?如何能消除一些歧视性或者针对性的语言?如何才能让大家以治学般的严谨态度探询、理解人与人的差异?

这个暑假，我和JimRyan院长谈及了这些情况，他表示，我们应该努力成为“包容的倾听者”。我对此非常认同，这也是一个真正的学者应该具有的品质。大学言论自由——每个人都有权表达自己的观点，但是在你们未来的大学四年内，这种言论自由可能无形中会因言语不当而带来伤害。这些言语也许本来是一番好意，却因为误解曲解而事与愿违。然而这些都是哈佛在努力推动多元化中无法避免的过程。这一点我们会继续坚持，在应对指控的法庭上、在日后的公众交流中、在我们每一天的生活中，都应该坚持这一点。

用心聆听，更包容地聆听，不要怕犯错，不要担心，勇于尝试，努力包容。让我们相互学习，共同进步。

>>>点击下一页更多精彩的“哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿”

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哈佛大学教授开学典礼演讲稿篇【3】

“Who Will Tell Your Story?”

May 24, 20xx

Greetings, Class of 20xx.

And so it is here—the week of your Commencement. The days of miracle and wonder when your theses are written, classes have ended, and you still have free HBO. And so it may seem strange to be gathered here today, as we pause for this ancient and curious custom called the Baccalaureate—but here we are, me in a pulpit and you in pews, dressed for a sermon in which I am to impart the sober wisdom of age to the semi-sober impatience of youth. Now, it is a daunting task. Especially since over the course of four years I have succeeded in disconcerting people on all sides of the many issues that you will soon be discussing with parents and grandparents over dinner—so in addition to a speech, for handy reference I’ve created a Placemat for Commencement, filled with useful phrases. Such as, “It’s ‘final club,’ without an ‘s.’”

Now, I am truly privileged today, for you are an extraordinary group. Your 80 countries of origin do not begin to describe you.

You may remember the day when we escaped the rain at your Freshman Convocation, and you heard from me and a phalanx of elders in dark robes: Connect, we said, make Harvard part of your narrative. Take risks, we told you. Don’t always listen to us.

And for four years you have distinguished yourselves with dazzling variety: In what may be Harvard’s most divergent dozen, you produced six Rhodes Scholars, including one who broke the world record for standing on a “Swiss” exercise ball, plus six athletes invited to the National Football League to play ball, players whose interests range from the ministry to curing infectious diseases.

You were good at long distances: You probed the atmosphere of an exoplanet; researched antibiotic use on a pig farm in Denmark; and you created a pilot program that cut shuttle times from the Quad by half.

You experienced old traditions: The mumps. A class color, orange. And the time-honored Lampoon theft of the Crimson president’s chair—this time transporting it across state lines to Manhattan’s Trump Tower, for a staged photo op with a then dark-horse presidential candidate.

You found your way: on campus, through a maze of renovations and swing housing; onstage, doing stand-up comedy on NBC, dancing in Bogota, and mounting Black Magic at the Loeb; through the halls of business and finance, running an intercollegiate investment fund; and exposing a privacy issue with Facebook’s Messenger app.

You won, with style and grace: as you captured the first national trophy for Harvard Mock Trial—by being funnier than Yale; and then you shellacked the Bulldogs in The Game for—yes—the 9th straight year; you produced the first Ivy “three-peats” in football and women’s track; and brought home the first Ivy crown in women’s rugby—how “Fierce and Beautiful” was that!

And, of course, all this was powered by HUDS, since 20xx, powered with ceaseless servings of swai.

And you were just plain good: You wrote prize-winning theses on sea level change, a water crisis in Detroit; you engineered a better barbecue smoker—and tested it in a blizzard; you joined the fight to end malaria; and earned the award for best hockey player in the NCAA for strength of character as well as skill; you became well connected—to Alzheimer’s patients, to kids in Kenya, to homeless youth; and, as the inaugural class of Ed School Teacher Fellows, 20 of you are preparing to help high-need students rise.

And I understand you even rested with ambition, as you tried to “Netflix and chill.”

You made it all look easy—all while facing blows to the spirit that have tempered and tested you. You arrived just after a breach of academic trust that, by your senior year, produced the first honor code in Harvard’s history, events that raised hard questions for all of us: What is success? What is integrity? To whom, or what, are we accountable?

When a hurricane prompted the first Harvard closing in 34 years, you rallied with generosity and goodwill—and did so again when we closed for snowstorm Nemo—the fifth largest in Boston history. And that was just a warm up, so to speak, for the Winter of Our Misery—the worst in Boston history—when you sledded the slopes of Widener in a kayak.

And when the bombs went off at the Boston Marathon, in just your second semester, we considered still larger questions: Who are we? What matters most? What do we owe to one another? You told me that you became Bostonians that day, bonded to a city beyond Harvard Square, and to each other during the manhunt and lockdown, when the University closed for an unprecedented third time in 6 months.

Who can forget the images—of the mayhem, of the people who ran, not for safety, buttoward the danger, into the chaos? The Army veteran, who smelled cordite, and expecting more bombs, saved a college student’s life; the man in the cowboy hat, who ripped away fencing in order to reach the most injured. And who can forget the moment when Red Sox first baseman David Ortiz stood in the center of Fenway Park and said in eleven words of fellowship and defiance that the FCC chose not to censor, though I will today—“this is our [bleeping] city and nobody[’s] gonna dictate our freedom.”

A few months ago as I was lucky enough to be sitting in a Broadway theater, absorbing the final number of the musical Hamilton, I thought of you, and that fierce spirit of inclusion and self-determination. I watched as Eliza, center stage, sang, “I put myself back in the narrative,” and asked the question in the title of her song, “Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story?,” the spirited summation of a production that, like you, has broken records. Like you, has created a new drama inside a very old one.

Harvard, one might say, is a bastion of opportunity and unimaginable good fortune—for all of us, who find a place, with varying degrees of comfort, at the center of its long and successful narrative. And yet the burden is on us—to locate the discomfort, to act on the restless spirit of that legacy. As I thought about speaking to you here today, it occurred to me how much the question in that final song has framed your time here, and how much it will continue to affect your lives, as college graduates, as Harvard alumni, as citizens and as leaders. Who will tell your story?

You. You will tell your story. That is the point that I want to leave you with today. Telling your own story, a fresh story, full of possibility and a new order of things, is the task of every generation, and the task before you. And that task is exactly what your liberal arts education has prepared you to do, in three vital ways:

First, telling your own story means discovering who you are, and not what others think you should be. It means being mindful of others, but deciding for yourself. It’s easy to tell a tale that others define, the one they expect to hear. A moment ago I sketched your Harvard history. But what did I leave out? One of Harvard’s legendary figures and Reverend Walton’s predecessor, the Reverend Peter Gomes, used to put it this way: “Don’t let anyone finish your sentences for you.” He loved being a paradox, an unpredictable surprise, but always true to himself: a Republican in Cambridge; a gay Baptist preacher; black president of the Pilgrim Society—Afro-Saxon, as he sometimes put it. Playful. Unapologetic. Unbounded by others’ expectations. “My anomalies,” he once said, “make it possible to advance the conversation.”

Advance the conversation. This is my next point. Telling our own stories is not just about us. It is a conversation with others, exploring larger purposes and other worlds and different ways of thinking. Your education is not a bubble. Think of it as an escape hatch, from what Nigerian novelist and former Radcliffe Fellow Chimamanda Adichie calls “The Danger of a Single Story.” She has observed, “[h]ow impressionable and vulnerable we are in the face of a story.” Not because it may be untrue, but because, in her words, “[stories] are incomplete. They make one story become the only story,” even though “[m]any stories matter.” For four years you have learned the rewards of other stories, and the risk of critical misunderstandings when they go unheard—whether those stories emerge from the Office for LGBTQ Life, or the Black Lives Matter movement, or the international conversation on sexual assault—and perhaps most powerfully, from one another. This is precious knowledge. Only by knowing that other stories are possible can we imagine a different future. What will medicine look like in the 21st century? Energy? Migration? How will cities be designed? The question, as one of you wrote in the Crimson, is not “What am [I] going to be,” but “What problem do [I] solve?”

Which brings me to my final point: keep revising. Every story is only a draft. We re-tell even our oldest sagas—whether of Hamilton and the American Revolution or of Harvard itself. The best education prepares you because it is unsettling, an obstacle course that forces us to question and push and reinvent ourselves, and the world, in a new way. Steven Spielberg, who will speak to us on Thursday, has explained the foundation of his powerful storytelling. He says: “Fear is my fuel. I get to the brink of not knowing what to do and that’s when I get my best ideas.”

What is a university but a place where everyone should feel equally sure to be unsure? Our best discoveries can start out as mistakes. As Herbie Hancock told us, his mentor jazz legend Miles Davis, said there is no playing a “wrong” note, only a surprising one, whose meaning depends on whatever you play next.

In the evolving universe of profiles and hashtags and selfies, it seems no accident that you are the class of Snapchat—a platform that took hold when you were freshmen and developed with you, from showing “snaps” to telling and sharing “stories”—stories that vanish every day, to be replaced by new stories, free of “likes” or “followers.” An app that, in the words of a founder, “isn’t about capturing … what[’s] pretty or perfect … but … creates a space to … communicat[e] with the full range of human emotion.”

And so for four years you have been learning to re-tell things: finding your voices, putting yourself in a narrative, whether that was demanding action against climate change, discovering that you love statistics, or creating the powerful message of “I, Too, Am Harvard.” You have seen things re-told. Even Harvard’s story. Last month one of my heroes, Congressman John Lewis, came to Harvard Yard to unveil a plaque on Wadsworth House, documenting the presence of four enslaved individuals who lived in the households of two Harvard presidents. John Lewis said, “We try to forget but the voices of generations have been calling us to remember.” Titus, Venus, Bilhah and Juba—their lives change our story. After three centuries, they have a voice. They, too, are Harvard.

Telling a new story isn’t easy. It can take courage, and resolve. It often means leaving the safe path for the unknown, compelled, as John Lewis put it, to “disturb the order of things.” And during your years here you have learned to make, as he urged, “good trouble, necessary trouble.”

For years I have been telling students: Find what you love. Do what matters to you. It might be physics or neuroscience, or filmmaking or finance. But don’t settle for Plot B, the safe story, the expected story, until you have tried Plot A, even if it might require a miracle. I call this the Parking Space Theory of Life. Don’t park 10 blocks away from your destination because you are afraid you won’t find a closer space. Don’t miss your spot—Don’t throw away your shot. Go to where you think you want to be. You can always circle back to where you have to be. This can require patience and determination. Steven Spielberg was, in fact, late to class his first day as a student at California State University, because, as he put it, “I had to park so far away.” He went on to sneak onto movie sets, no matter how many times he got thrown off.

“You shouldn&39;t dream your film,” he has said, “you should make it!”

Perhaps this is the new Jurassic Parking Space Theory of Life—don’t just tell your story, live it. Your future is not a . It’s an attitude, a way of being that can create a new narrative no one may have thought possible, let alone probable:

Jeremy Lin—Harvard graduate, Asian-American—changed the narrative of professional basketball, still sizzling with “Linsanity” when you arrived as freshmen.

Think about Stephen Hawking, who spoke to us last month through a speech synthesizer. He changed the narrative of the universe, a story about what ultimately will become of all our stories—one he has been revising since he was your age, when he was given three years to live.

And you are already changing the story:

Think of the astrophysics and mythology concentrator who started a mentorship program for women of color to change the narrative of who enters STEM fields, and she wrote a science fiction novel to tell a new research-based story about the galaxy.

Or think of the Second Lieutenant—one of 12 new Harvard officers—who will serve her country in the U.S. Marines, battling not only the enemy, but persistent gender divides. “How will that change,” she says, “unless we start now?”

And think about the pre-med student who found himself literally running away from campus, fleeing in misery, until he suddenly stopped in his tracks and turned back, because he remembered he needed to be at a theater rehearsal where he had stage managing responsibilities. Some 20 productions later, he has a theater directing fellowship for next year, and even his parents, as he puts it, now believe “that I am an artist.”

Value the ballast of custom, the foundations of knowledge, the weight of expectation. They, too, are important. But don’t be afraid to defy them.

And don’t worry, as you feel the tug of these final days together. I am here to tell you that your Harvard story is never done. In 1978, two freshmen watched a screening of the movieLove Story in the Science Center. Three decades later, they met for the first time. And their wedding story appeared last month in The New York Times.

So, congratulations, Class of 20xx. Don’t forget from whence you came. Change the narrative. Rewrite the story. There is no one I would rather trust with that task.

Go well, 20xx.

哈佛校长福斯特演讲中文

人们也许会说哈佛是天堂，充满了各种难以想象的机遇和好运——确实，我们每个人都有幸在她漫长而成功的历史中占有一席之地。但这也对我们提出了要求：我们有责任走出自己的舒适区，寻找属于我们的挑战，践行哈佛奋斗不息的精神。

在我准备今天演讲的时候， 我想到了音乐剧《汉密尔顿》中最后那首歌里的问题：

“谁来讲述你的故事?”

我想这个问题奠定了你们过去四年大学生活的基调，也将对你们未来作为哈佛毕业生和校友的生活产生深远的影响，无论是作为公民或是领袖——

谁，来讲述你的故事?

是你，你要来讲述你的故事!

这就是今天我要对你们说的话：讲你自己的故事，一个充满了无限可能性和新秩序的崭新故事，这是每一代人的任务，也是现在摆在你面前的任务。你在哈佛所接受的文理博雅教育，将会用以下三种重要方式，帮助你去完成这项任务。

“听别人的建议，做你自己的决定”

讲述你的故事意味着发现你自己是谁——而不是成为别人认为你的谁。你要参考别人的意见，但要做出自己的决定。讲述一个别人定义好的或别人希望听到的故事，那太容易了。

哈佛的传奇人物之一、可敬的彼得·戈麦斯教授曾说：“不要让任何人替你把话说完。”

戈麦斯教授自己经常“自相矛盾”，令人难以捉摸，但永远忠于他自己：他是一位剑桥市的共和党人(注：在哈佛所在的剑桥市，共和党是少数派);他是一位浸礼会的牧师，但同时是个同性恋(注：基督教大多不支持同性恋);他是朝圣者协会的会长，同时又是一位黑人(注：朝圣者协会白人居多)。

他对自己的信仰坚定不移，他不为外人的期望牵挂束缚。他说：“我的不同寻常，让开启新的对话变为可能。”

“开启与他人的对话，倾听他人的故事”

开启新的对话，这是我的下一个重点。讲述我们自己的故事并不意味着只关注我们自己。讲故事是与他人对话，借此探寻更远大的目标、探索其他的世界、探究不同的思维方式——你所受的教育不是一个真空的大泡沫。

如果我们只讲述单一的故事，那将是危险的，就像诺大的场地只有一个逃生口，令所有人变得异常脆弱。单一的故事不一定是假的，但它是不完整的。所有的故事都很重要，不能把单一角度的故事变成唯一的故事。

过去四年，你们感受到了倾听他人故事的益处，也体验到了忽略他人故事所带来的危险。只有意识到，世界上充满了各种各样的故事，我们才能想象一个不一样的未来。21世纪的医疗是什么样?能源是什么样?移民是什么样?城市将如何设计?面对这些问题，你要问的不是“我会成为什么样的人”，而是

“我能解决什么问题”?

“在不安和不确定中，不断修正你的故事”

这也引出了最后一个重点：不断修正。每个故事其实都只是一个草稿，我们连最古老的传说都会不断拿来重提——不管是汉密尔顿将军的故事、美国独立战争的史诗、亦或是哈佛自己的历史。

好的教育之所以好，是因为它让你坐立不安，它强迫你不断重新认识我们自己和我们周遭的世界，并不断去改变。

斯蒂芬·斯皮尔伯格将在毕业典礼上为我们演讲，他就曾经这样解释他创作的基石：“恐惧是我的动力。当我濒临走投无路的时候，那也是我遇见最好的想法的时候。”

大学，不正是这样一个让每一个人都接受挑战、让每一个人都产生不确定性的地方吗?

就这样，大学四年间，你都一直在学习重新讲述你的故事：寻找你自己的声音，将自己放入一个故事中——无论是对气候变化采取反抗行动，发现你对统计学的热衷，还是发起了一项有意义的运动，你亲眼目睹故事不断被重新讲述。

“不要妥协，直奔你的目标”

这些年，我一直在告诉大家：

追随你所爱!

去从事你真正关心的事业吧，无论是物理还是神经科学，无论是金融还是电影制片。如果你想好了目的地，就直接往那里去吧。这就是我的“停车位理论”：不要因为觉得肯定没有停车位了，就把车停在距离目的地10个街区远的地方。直接去你想去的地方，如果车位已满，你总可以再绕回来。

所以在这里，我想祝贺你们，20xx届的哈佛毕业生们。别忘了你们来自何处，不断改变你的故事，不断重写你的故事。我相信这项任务除了你们自己，谁也无法替你们完成!

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