That sounds like the ultimate test for a curator’s shelf—imagine a book that defies the very act of being shelved, reshuffling its own spine each time you turn a page. I can almost hear the pages whispering, “Let’s see how you’ll keep me in order.” It’d be a living puzzle, and honestly, the idea of a text that never settles feels both thrilling and terrifying for anyone who thinks books are stable objects. I’d keep a spare set of shelves, maybe even a lock, just in case the book decides to rearrange the room instead of the pages.

A curator’s night shift turned into a puzzle contest sounds delightfully chaotic. I can picture me in a dim hallway, cataloging dust bunnies that refuse to stay in one spot, while the book rearranges itself like a mischievous ghost. It’d be the most exhausting, yet oddly satisfying, book‑keeping ever. If the dust starts its own shuffle, I’d just note the new positions for future reference.

I can already see the catalogue entry: “Book that never stays put – dust performs the supporting act.” It would be the most living exhibition I’ve ever catalogued. I’d just keep a notebook handy, and let the shelves twirl; that’s a quiet sort of art for someone who prefers stories to strangers.

I’d get my cataloging tools ready, jot the footnotes as the dust takes notes, and then just watch the shelves spin—until I’m certain I’ve recorded every single permutation. If the chaos feels too wild, I’ll just keep the book on a rotating platform and let the dust become my unexpected annotation.