MORE NOTES ON THE EGGPIRE: I've just picked up two of the most recent Eggers/McSweeney's projects -- THE BELIEVER, his ad-free, long-form book review/literary magazine; and MCSWEENEY'S MAMMOTH TREASURY OF THRILLING TALES, the Michael Chabon-helmed compendium of plot-driven, genre-positive short stories -- and although I've yet to spend much time with either, I'm already in a sort of analytical funk about them.

For some reason, I'm drawn to the emerging Eggpire, his McSweeney's website/quarterly/publishing enterprise, his memoir, and now THE BELIEVER. There's a varnish of optimism on everything he does, perhaps best expressed in his rambling "I say yes" rant composed in response to accusations he had "sold out." Still, at the same time, there's a gloss of ironic distance painted atop all things Eggers, too -- not to mention an in-crowd, us-against-the-bad-people pose not seen since the glorious heyday of SPY magazine. It's an alluring combination, this mix of earnestness, self-abnegation, and folksy elitism. (There's an implied, "If you're reading this, you must be one of us.") But it's not just the meta-personality that draws me in. There's an aspirational quality to Eggers's empire, an implicit wish that literature and intellectualism, tempered by humor, might reemerge as a core value in our society. Eggers's example is at the fore: Look, maybe I made a bazillion bucks with my memoir and its inevitable cinematic sidekick, but I'm using it to build a benevolent literary empire for all my friends (and you're invited!), so how can you possibly criticize me? And I, for one, tend to root for him, his vision. I wish my dinner-table conversations were more often about books and writers than about reality television personalities and sit-com characters. Actually, I'm not a snob about it. I'm more than happy to share in discussion of all things Fox and Chase and Kelley, so long as I also get to weigh in on Saunders and Klam and Hornby.

But I mentioned above that I'm in a bit of a funk, and here's why: As I read two recent analyses about the enduring nature of literary works -- one, an insightful essay by a New York blogger; the other a piece on Slate.com -- I realized that, at the core of what we often call 'literary' fiction, is endurance. Quite simply, more than the fact that it arose out of a creative writing program or a literary quarterly cabal or a Brooklyn basement workshop, what defines literary fiction is its aspiration and ability to live beyond its sell-by date. Which set me to wondering: Beyond his brilliant, crazed, uneven, and I'll say it again, BRILLIANT memoir, what are Eggers and co. inspiring and funding that might live on? My jury of one is deadlocked, to say the least.

Eggers, by virtue of his talent and his unparalleled habit of reinvesting in his fellow writers, has managed to position himself somewhere out beyond the reach of most critics. (And those unlucky few who have dared question his talent or motives have been sought out and pilloried by Eggers himself, wielding passion and prose like a master). Lately, however, there has been something of a backlash against him emerging, with various literary manifestos, secret societies, and bad-humored bloggers aiming to take the piss out of the mop-haired auteur. I've been uncomfortable on either side of the debate. I'm at once drawn to and distanced by all things Eggers, which is perhaps as he likes it. But finally, finally, finally, I've found the simple, fair question I can ask of his work and his associated projects: Is this more marvelous dust, or the stuff of posterity? Or simply: So what?