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哈佛大学开学典礼演讲稿
演讲稿体现着演讲的目的和手段。演讲稿是人们在工作和社会生活中经常使用的一种文体。它可以用来交流思想、感情，表达 主张、见解;也可以用来介绍自己的学习、工作情况和经验等等
哈佛大学开学典礼演讲稿篇【1】
当我们的开国先辈于1630年来到马塞诸塞州的这片海岸时，他们是作为持异见者而来的——他们摒弃了家乡英国的体制。但是一直令我惊奇的是，在当时的这片荒地里，在如何生存下去还是个未解的问题之时，这些开国先辈很快就意识到了建立(哈佛大学)这所高等学府的必要性。
自此以后，一代代人来了又去，哈佛的校园也不断扩大，不再局限于当年的几间小木楼。但没有变的是，每一代人都充满信心，想要建立更好的社会，每一代人也都相信，这所大学将使这种愿望成为可能。正如一位早期创始人Thomas Shepard 所说，我们希望毕业生走向世界之后，能够成长为对国家有益之人。
而如今，将近四个世纪后，我们发现我们处在一个充满挑战的历史时刻。我们应如何鼓励我们的毕业生去做对他人有益之事?我们是否培养出了以造福他人为目的的毕业生?还是，我们所有人都已变得对个人成就、机遇和形象如此痴狂，以至于忘记了我们的互相依赖，忘记了我们对于彼此和对于这所旨在促进公共利益的大学的责任?
这是一个自拍——还有自拍杆的时代
不要误解我：自拍真是件令人欲罢不能的事儿，而且在两年前的毕业典礼演讲上，我还特意鼓励毕业生们多给我们发送一些自拍照，让我们知道他们毕业后过得怎么样。但是仔细想想，如果社会里的每个人都开始过上整天自拍的生活，这会是怎样一个社会呢?对于我来说，那也许是“利己主义”最真实的写照了。
韦氏词典里，“利己主义”的同义词包括了“以自我为中心”、“自恋”和“自私”。我们无休止地关注我们自己、我们的形象、我们得到的“赞”，就像我们不停地用一串串的成就来美化我们的简历，去申请大学、申请研究生院、申请工作——借用Shepard 的话来说，就是进行不停的“自我放大”。
正如一位社会评论家所观察到的那样，我们都在不停地为打造自己的品牌而努力。我们花很多时间盯着屏幕看，却忽视了身边的人。我们生活中的很大一部分经历不是被我们体验到的，而是被保存、分享并流传于Snapchat 和Instagram 等APP 上的——最终它们呈现出的是一种由我们所有人合成的自拍照。
为什么我们还需要大学?
批评家们问道：我们就不能全靠自学吗?硅谷创业家Peter Thiel 敦促学生们辍学，甚至还给予他们经济补助，让他们辍学创业——这其中也包括我们哈佛的一些本科生。毕竟，从逻辑上来讲，马克·扎克伯格和比尔·盖茨都辍学了，他们似乎都很成功。事实如此，没错。
但是请大家别忘了：比尔·盖茨和马克·扎克伯格都是从哈佛辍学的!哈佛是孕育他们改变世界想法的地方。哈佛以及其他像哈佛一样的学府培养了数以千计的物理学家、数学家、计算机科学家、商业分析师、律师和其他有一技之长的人，这些都是Facebook 和微软公司赖以生存的员工。
哈佛也培养了无数的政府官员和人民公仆，建设和领导国家，让像Facebook 、微软以及类似的公司可以繁荣发展。哈佛大学还培养了无数的作家、电影制作人和新闻工作者，是他们的作品给互联网增添了“内容”。
而且我们也要看到，大学是人类和社会技术革新的源泉，这些革新是互联网公司发展的基石——从早期创造计算机和编写计算机程序的成功，到为如今无处不在的触屏奠定基础的样机的发展。
我们还被告知，大学将土崩瓦解，颠覆性的创新将使得每个人可以自学成才。
人们可以在大规模开放在线课程(MOOC)中选课，并设立DIY学位。但在线学习与大学学习并不相悖，前者可以拓展——但不会取代——后者。通过类似像edX 和HarvardX 的这样的在线课程平台，我们已经开始与全球数百万的学习者分享哈佛的精神财富。有趣的是，我们发现世界各地的在线学习者中，有一个群体人数众多，那就是老师——他们正用这些在线课程中的知识来丰富他们自己线下的学校和课堂。
总而言之，主张大学已经没有存在意义的断言来源于人们对于机构的'不信任，这种不信任的根本在于我们对于个人权利和感召力的陶醉以及对于名人的崇拜。政府、企业、非营利组织都和大学一样，成为了质疑和批评的靶子。
很少有反对的声音来提醒我们这些机构是如何服务和支持我们的，我们常常认为它们的存在理所应当。你的食物是安全的;你的血液检查是可信赖的;你的投票站是开放的;当你拨动开关时，一定会有电;你所乘坐航班的起落都是根据航空安全规定进行的。设想一下，假如所有的市政基础设施停摆一周或一个月，我们的生活会是怎样?
机构体现了我们与其他个体之间持久的联系，它们将我们不同的天赋和能力拧成一股绳，去追求共同的目标。同时，它们也将我们与过去和未来维系起来。它们是价值的金矿——这些恒久的价值超越了每一个自我。机构促使我们放弃眼前即刻的快乐，思考更远大的图景，更长远的全局。它们提醒我们世界只是暂时属于我们，我们肩负着过去和未来的责任，真正的我们要比我们自己和我们的自拍照要广博得多。
而大学的责任正在于此——用我们共同的人类遗产号召大家去开拓未来——这个未来将由今天从这里毕业的数千名哈佛学生去创造。我们的工作是一个持续的承诺，它并不针对单一的个体，甚至不针对一代人或一个时代，它是对一个更大的世界的承诺，是一个对于正在等待它服务的时代的承诺。
哈佛校园正中的约翰·哈佛雕像
1884年，我的前辈、Charles William Eliot 校长为约翰·哈佛雕像揭幕，并谈到研究约翰·哈佛——这位冠名了这所大学的人——“波澜壮阔”的一生带来的启发。
Eliot 校长说：“他(约翰·哈佛)会告诉人们善行会流芳百世，会以超越所有计量方式的速度和规模繁衍。他会教导人们，在这个教育花园里播下的种子，如何迸发出喜悦、力量以及永远新鲜的能量，年年花开，随着时光流转，在人类活动的所有领域，花繁叶茂。”
所以，今天下午我们列队行进经过的那座雕像，它不仅仅是一座代表个人的纪念碑，更是代表一个不断自我更新的社区和机构的纪念碑。你们今天坐在这里，就代表了一种对于哈佛这个社区和机构的认可，这种认可也是你对于哈佛驱使你超越自我、惠及他人的感召力的认可。我感谢你们今天在这里的许下的承诺，祝你们每一位都开心、健康且永远充满活力!
哈佛大学开学典礼演讲稿篇【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。
哈佛大学开学典礼演讲稿篇【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'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：天主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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