The web goblin knows that there is something inside of him, greater than him, that can speak for him and say the things that he can't say. Like stuttering Moses, suddenly aflame in inspiration, finding God's words flowing past his lips addressing Pharaoh and his magicians. What's inside of the goblin speaks only in righteous anger.
It's not like those moments when someone says something monumentally offensive and your lid flips and you find yourself letting loose a torrent of fury that seemingly comes out of nowhere. It's greater than even that, greater than any one goblin's anger.
The thing inside the goblin only ever came out in a university fiction writing workshop senior year. The professor was dull and short-sighted; the other students were interested only in an easy 'A'.
The goblin has trouble speaking in groups; the thing inside of him does not. It doesn't hate to interrupt. It isn't always waiting for a break that never comes in order to interject. It doesn't sit by getting increasingly upset at the flood of ignorance going unchecked.
The thing inside of the goblin says the things he wants to say, but says them better than he can, more succinctly, so clearly that even the dullest listener understands, and so forcefully that there can be no rejoinder. The thing inside the goblin understands the points that he wants to make even better than he does, and even he learns from listening to the words the things inside of him has him speak.
The first time the thing inside the goblin spoke, it left everyone stunned. After a pause, the professor chuckled uncomfortably and said that the thing inside the goblin had just spanned what she had intended to cover the day's entire discussion. Class was dismissed. No one spoke as they gathered their things and left.
When the thing inside of the goblin moved within him, and spoke through him, it was like touching something larger than himself, being a conduit for something greater. We're all in trouble if that something is the divine. Especially lit. majors.